A  LANDSCAPE  PAINTER 


A  LANDSCAPE 
PAINTER 


BY 
HENRY  JAMES 


NEW  YORK 

SCOTT    AND    SELTZER 
1919 


Copyright,   1919, 
By   Scott   and   Seltzer,   Inc. 


First  printing,    December,   1919. 
Second  printing,  January,  1920. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

All  Rights  Reserved 


\  A 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

A  LANDSCAPE  PAINTER 7 

POOR  RICHARD         71 

A  DAY  OF  DAYS 177 

A  MOST  EXTRAORDINARY  CASE 219 


412370 


PREFACE 

THE  four  tales  comprising  this  volume  are  printed 
now  for  the  first  time  in  America  in  book  form.  All 
of  them  were  written  by  Henry  James  before  he  had 
attained  his  twenty-fifth  year.  They  are  remarkable 
for  their  maturity  of  thought  and  clarity  of  style. 

It  has  been  the  general  opinion  that  James,  like 
George  Eliot,  achieved  his  literary  development 
rather  slowly,  since  it  was  known  that  he  was  thirty- 
two  years  of  age  when  "The  Passionate  Pilgrim/' 
his  first  collection  of  tales,  and  "Rodrick  Hudson," 
his  first  long  novel,  were  published.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  however,  James  had  been  writing  for  the  lead 
ing  magazines  since  he  was  twenty-two.  The  first 
story  in  this  volume,  "A  Landscape  Painter,"  ap 
peared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  February,  1866, 
and  was  the  second  story  James  had  published  up  to 
that  time. 

The  tales  in  this  volume  are  among  the  most 
precious  in  our  literature,  and  James  himself  thought 

1 


-* :  s* I  • «:  .c  1 1  Preface 


highly  of  them,  since  he  collected  them  in  an  English 
edition,  published  in  1885,  in  three  volumes  with  the 
title,  "Short  Stories  Revived."  This  collection 
never  appeared  in  America.  It  is  strange  that  James 
should  have  chosen  to  appeal  to  English  readers 
rather  than  to  his  own  countrymen.  Why  he  did  so 
is  a  question  that  remains  unanswered.  But  the  pres 
ent  volume  will  serve  as  a  corrective  of  this  anomaly. 
The  tales  are  reprinted,  not  from  the  English  edition, 
but  from  the  American  periodicals  in  which  they 
were  first  published. 

It  has  been  claimed  for  William  Dean  Howells 
that  it  was  he  who  discovered  James,  when,  as  assist 
ant  editor  to  Fields  on  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  he 
strongly  recommended  the  acceptance  of  James* 
story,  "Poor  Richard."  The  claim,  however,  is  not 
altogether  well  founded,  since  James  had  published 
two  stories  before  that  time.  These  were  "A  Land 
scape  Painter"  and  "A  Day  of  Days,"  the  latter  ap 
pearing  in  the  Galaxy  for  June  15,  1866.  All  three 
stories  are  reprinted  in  this  volume. 

Unusual  interest,  however,  attaches  to  the  tale  of 
"Poor  Richard,"  because  of  HoweH's  connection 
with  it.  Its  reading  led  to  the  beginning  of  a  friend 
ship  between  James  and  Howells  which  may  be  con 
sidered  as  one  of  the  great  literary  friendships  in 
the  annals  of  literature.  Howells  told  the  story  in 
the  Century  for  November,  1882. 


Preface  3 


When  the  manuscript  was  received  at  the  office  of 
the  Atlantic,  Fields  submitted  it  to  Ho  wells  for  his 
opinion.  Howells  read  it,  and  when  asked  whether 
he  would  accept  it,  he  replied,  "Yes,  and  all  the 
stories  you  can  get  from  that  writer."  "One  is 
much  securer  of  one's  judgment/*  writes  Howells, 
"at  twenty-nine  than,  say,  at  forty-five ;  but  if  there 
was  a  mistake,  I  am  not  yet  old  enough  to  regret  it. 
The  story  was  called  Toor  Richard*  and  it  dealt 
with  the  conscience  of  a  man  very  much  in  love  with 
a  woman  who  loved  his  rival.  He  told  the  rival  a 
lie,  which  sent  him  away  to  his  death  on  the  field, 
but  poor  Richard's  lie  did  not  win  his  love.  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  situation  was  strongly  and 
finely  felt.  One's  pity  went,  as  it  should,  with  the 
liar ;  but  the  whole  story  has  a  pathos  which  lingers 
in  my  mind  equally  with  a  sense  of  the  new  literary 
qualities  which  gave  me  much  delight  in  it." 

The  final  story  of  this  volume,  "A  Most  Extraor 
dinary  Case,"  was  first  published  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  for  April,  1868,  when  Howells  was  still  on 
the  editorial  staff. 

I  am  sure  these  first  efforts  of  James*  pen  will  be 
welcomed  by  his  American  admirers.  They  are  in 
every  way  worthy  of  James  at  his  best,  and  so 
worthy  of  being  preserved.  The  only  regret  the 
reader  may  feel  is  that  the  author  should  in  his 
later  works  have  seen  fit  to  adopt  an  elaborate,  com- 


4  Preface 


plex  and  often  obscure  style,  instead  of  clinging  to 
simple,  natural  language,  of  which  these  stories  show 
him  to  be  such  a  master. 

ALBERT  MORDELL* 
Philadelphia,  July  10,  1919. 


A  LANDSCAPE  PAINTER 


A    LANDSCAPE 
PAINTER 


DO  you  remember  how,  a  dozen  years  ago, 
a  number  of  our  friends  were  startled  by 
the  report  of  the  rupture  of  young  Locks- 
ley's  engagement  with  Miss  Leary?  This  event 
made  some  noise  in  its  day.  Both  parties  possessed 
certain  claims  to  distinction :  Locksley  in  his  wealth, 
which  was  believed  to  be  enormous,  and  the  young 
lady  in  her  beauty,  which  was  in  truth  very  great. 
I  used  to  hear  that  her  lover  was  fond  of  compar 
ing  her  to  the  Venus  of  Milo;  and,  indeed,  if  you 
can  imagine  the  mutilated  goddess  with  her  full 
complement  of  limbs,  dressed  out  by  Madame  de 
Crinoline,  and  engaged  in  small  talk  beneath  the 
drawing-room  chandelier,  you  may  obtain  a  vague 
notion  of  Miss  Josephine  Leary.  Locksley,  you  re 
member,  was  rather  a  short  man,  dark,  and  not 
particularly  good-looking;  and  when  he  walked 
about  with  his  betrothed,  it  was  half  a  matter  of 

7 


8 A  Landscape  Painter 

surprise  that  he  should  have  ventured  to  propose  to 
a  young  lady  of  such  heroic  proportions.  Miss 
Leary  had  the  gray  eyes  and  auburn  hair  which  I 
have  always  assigned  to  the  famous  statue.  The 
one  defect  in  her  face,  in  spite  of  an  expression  of 
great  candor  and  sweetness,  was  a  certain  lack  of 
animation.  What  it  was  besides  her  beauty  that 
attracted  Locksley  I  never  discovered :  perhaps, 
since  his  attachment  was  so  short-lived,  it  was  her 
beauty  alone.  I  say  that  his  attachment  was  of 
brief  duration,  because  the  rupture  was  understood 
to  have  come  from  him.  Both  he  and  Miss  Leary 
very  wisely  held  their  tongues  on  the  matter;  but 
among  their  friends  and  enemies  it  of  course  re 
ceived  a  hundred  explanations.  That  most  popular 
with  Locksley's  well-wishers  was  that  he  had  backed 
out  (these  events  are  discussed,  you  know,  in  fash 
ionable  circles  very  much  as  an  expected  prize 
fight  which  has  miscarried  is  canvassed  in  reunions 
of  another  kind)  only  on  flagrant  evidence  of  the 
lady's  —  what,  faithlessness  ?  —  on  overwhelming 
proof  of  the  most  mercenary  spirit  on  the  part  of 
Miss  Leary.  You  see,  our  friend  was  held  capable 
of  doing  battle  for  an  "idea."  It  must  be  owned 
that  this  was  a  novel  charge;  but,  for  myself,  hav 
ing  long  known  Mrs.  Leary,  the  mother,  who  was  a 


A  Landscape  Painter 9 

widow  with  four  daughters,  to  be  an  inveterate  old 
screw,  I  took  the  liberty  of  accrediting  the  existence 
of  a  similar  propensity  in  her  eldest  born.  I  sup 
pose  that  the  young  lady's  family  had,  on  their 
own  side,  a  very  plausible  version  of  their  disap 
pointment.  It  was,  however,  soon  made  up  to  them 
by  Josephine's  marriage  with  a  gentleman  of  ex 
pectations  very  nearly  as  brilliant  as  those  of  her  old 
suitor.  And  what  was  his  compensation?  That  is 
precisely  my  story. 

Locksley  disappeared,  as  you  will  remember,  from 
public  view.  The  events  above  alluded  to  happened 
in  March.  On  calling  at  his  lodgings  in  April,  I 
was  told  he  had  gone  to  the  "country."  But  towards 
the  last  of  May  I  met  him.  He  told  me  that  he  was 
on  the  look-out  for  a  quiet,  unfrequented  place  on 
the  seashore,  where  he  might  rusticate  and  sketch. 
He  was  looking  very  poorly.  I  suggested  Newport, 
and  I  remember  he  hardly  had  the  energy  to  smile 
at  the  simple  joke.  We  parted  without  my  having 
been  able  to  satisfy  him,  and  for  a  very  long  time 
I  quite  lost  sight  of  him.  He  died  seven  years  ago, 
at  the  age  of  thirty-five.  For  five  years,  accord 
ingly,  he  managed  to  shield  his  life  from  the  eyes 
of  men.  Through  circumstances  which  I  need  not 
detail,  a  large  portion  of  his  personal  property  has 


10 A  Landscape  Painter 

come  into  my  hands.  You  will  remember  that  he 
was  a  man  of  what  are  called  elegant  tastes:  that 
is,  he  was  seriously  interested  in  arts  and  letters 
He  wrote  some  very  bad  poetry,  but  he  produced 
a  number  of  remarkable  paintings.  He  left  a  mass 
of  papers  on  all  subjects,  few  of  which  are  adapted 
to  be  generally  interesting.  A  portion  of  them,  how 
ever,  I  highly  prize, — that  which  constitutes  his 
private  diary.  It  extends  from  his  twenty-fifth  to 
his  thirtieth  year,  at  which  period  it  breaks  off 
suddenly.  If  you  will  come  to  my  house,  I  will 
show  you  such  of  his  pictures  and  sketches  as  I 
possess,  and,  I  trust,  convert  you  to  my  opinion  that 
he  had  in  him  the  stuff  of  a  great  painter.  Mean 
while  I  will  place  before  you  the  last  hundred  pages 
of  his  diary,  as  an  answer  to  your  inquiry  regard 
ing  the  ultimate  view  taken  by  the  great  Nemesis 
of  his  treatment  of  Miss  Leary, — his  scorn  of  the 
magnificent  Venus  Victrix.  The  recent  decease  of 
the  one  person  who  had  a  voice  paramount  to  mine 
in  the  disposal  of  Locksle/s  effects  enables  me  to 
act  without  reserve. 

Cragthrope,  June  gth. — I  have  been  sitting  sonit 
minutes,  pen  in  hand,  pondering  whether  on  tKl 
new  earth,  beneath  this  new  sky,  I  had  better  resttL  x 
these  occasional  records  of  my  idleness.     I  thiii. 


A  Landscape  Painter 11 

1  at  all  events  make  the  experiment.  If  we  fail, 
as  Lady  Macbeth  remarks,  we  fail.  I  find  my  en 
vies  have  been  longest  when  my  life  has  been  dull 
est.  I  doubt  not,  therefore,  that,  once  launched 
into  the  monotony  of  village  life,  I  shall  sit  scrib 
bling  from  morning  till  night.  If  nothing  hap 
pens But  my  prophetic  soul  tells  me  that 

something  will  happen.  I  am  determined  that  some 
thing  shall, — if  it  be  nothing  else  than  that  I  paint 
a  picture. 

When  I  came  up  to  bed  half  an  hour  ago,  I  was 
deadly  sleepy.  Now,  after  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow  a  little  while,  my  brain  is  strong  and  clear,  and 
I  feel  as  if  I  could  write  till  morning.  But,  unfor 
tunately,  I  have  nothing  to  write  about.  And  then, 
if  I  expect  to  rise  early,  I  must  turn  in  betimes.  The 
whole  village  is  asleep,  godless  metropolitan  that  I 
am !  The  lamps  on  the  square  without  flicker  in  the 
wir/d ;  there  is  nothing  abroad  but  the  blue  darkness 
ar  1  the  smell  of  the  rising  tide.  I  have  spent  the 

lole  day  on  my  legs,  trudging  from  one  side  of 
le  peninsula  to  the  other.  What  a  trump  is  old 

vlrs.  M ,  to  have  thought  of  this  place !  I  must 

write  her  a  letter  of  passionate  thanks.  Never  be 
fore,  it  seems  to  me,  have  I  known  pure  coast-scen- 

y.  Never  before  have  I  relished  the  beauties  of 
r~vave,  rock,  and  cloud.  I  am  filled  with  a  sensuous 
ecstasy  at  the  unparalleled  life,  light,  and  trans- 


12 A  Landscape  Painter 

parency  of  the  air.  I  am  stricken  mute  with  rever 
ent  admiration  at  the  stupendous  resources  pos 
sessed  by  the  ocean  in  the  way  of  color  and  sound ; 
and  as  yet,  I  suppose,  I  have  not  seen  half  of  them, 
I  came  in  to  supper  hungry,  weary,  footsore,  sun 
burnt,  dirty, — happier,  in  short,  than  I  have  been 
for  a  twelvemonth.  And  now  for  the  victories  of 
the  brush! 

June  nth. — Another  day  afoot  and  also  afloat. 
I  resolved  this  morning  to  leave  this  abominable 
little  tavern.  I  can't  stand  my  feather-bed  another 
night.  I  determined  to  find  some  other  prospec 
than  the  town-pump  and  the  "drug-store."  I  ques 
tioned  my  host,  after  breakfast,  as  to  the  possibility 
of  getting  lodgings  in  any  of  the  outlying  farms  and 
cottages.  But  my  host  either  did  not  or  would  not 
know  anything  about  the  matter.  So  I  resolved  to 
wander  forth  and  seek  my  fortune, — to  roam  inquis 
itive  through  the  neighborhood,  and  appeal  to  the 
indigenous  sentiment  of  hospitality.  But  never  did 
I  see  a  folk  so  devoid  of  this  amiable  quality.  By 
dinner-time  I  had  given  up  in  despair.  After  din 
ner  I  strolled  down  to  the  harbor,  which  is  close  at 
hand.  The  brightness  and  breeziness  of  the  water 
tempted  me  to  hire  a  boat  and  resume  my  explora 
tions.  I  procured  an  old  tub,  with  a  short  stump  of 
a  mast,  which,  being  planted  quite  in  the  centre, 


A  Landscape  Painter 18 

gave  the  craft  much  the  appearance  of  an  inverted 
mushroom.  I  made  for  what  I  took  to  be,  and  what 
is,  an  island,  lying  long  and  low,  some  three  or 
four  miles,  over  against  the  town.  I  sailed  for  half 
an  hour  directly  before  the  wind,  and  at  last  found 
myself  aground  on  the  shelving  beach  of  a  quiet 
little  cove.  Such  a  little  cove!  So  bright,  so  still, 
so  warm,  so  remote  from  the  town,  which  lay  off  in 
the  distance,  white  and  semicircular!  I  leaped 
ashore,  and  dropped  my  anchor.  Before  me  rose  a 
steep  cliff,  crowned  with  an  old  ruined  fort  or  tower. 
I  made  my  way  up,  and  about  to  the  landward  en 
trance.  The  fort  is  a  hollow  old  shell.  Looking 
upward  from  the  beach,  you  see  the  harmless  blue 
sky  through  the  gaping  loopholes.  Its  interior  is 
choked  with  rocks  and  brambles,  and  masses  of 
fallen  masonry.  I  scrambled  up  to  the  parapet,  and 
obtained  a  noble  sea-view.  Beyond  the  broad  bay 
I  saw  miniature  town  and  country  mapped  out  be 
fore  me;  and  on  the  other  hand,  I  saw  the  infinite 
Atlantic, — over  which,  by  the  by,  all  the  pretty 
things  are  brought  from  Paris.  I  spent  the  whole 
afternoon  in  wandering  hither  and  thither  over  the 
hills  that  encircle  the  little  cove  in  which  I  had 
landed,  heedless  of  the  minutes  and  my  steps,  watch 
ing  the  sailing  clouds  and  the  cloudy  sails  on  the 
horizon,  listening  to  the  musical  attrition  of  the 
tidal  pebbles,  killing  innocuous  suckers.  The  only 


14  A  Landscape  Painter 

particular  sensation  I  remember  was  that  of  being 
ten  years  old  again,  together  with  a  general  impres 
sion  of  Saturday  afternoon,  of  the  liberty  to  go  in 
wading  or  even  swimming,  and  of  the  prospect  of 
limping  home  in  the  dusk  with  a  wondrous  story  of 
having  almost  caught  a  turtle.  When  I  returned,  I 
found — but  I  know  very  well  what  I  found,  and  I 
need  hardly  repeat  it  here  for  my  mortification. 
Heaven  knows  I  never  was  a  practical  character. 
What  thought  I  about  the  tide?  There  lay  the  old 
tub,  high  and  dry,  with  the  rusty  anchor  protruding 
from  the  flat  green  stones  and  the  shallow  puddles 
left  by  the  receding  wave.  Moving  the  boat  an  inch, 
much  more  a  dozen  yards,  was  quite  beyond  my 
strength.  I  slowly  reascended  the  cliff,  to  see  if 
from  its  summit  any  help  was  discernible.  None 
was  within  sight ;  and  I  was  about  to  go  down  again 
in  profound  dejection,  when  I  saw  a  trim  little  sail 
boat  shoot  out  from  behind  a  neighboring  bluff, 
and  advance  along  the  shore.  I  quickened  pace. 
On  reaching  the  beach,  I  found  the  newcomer 
standing  out  about  a  hundred  yards.  The  man  at 
the  helm  appeared  to  regard  me  with  some  interest. 
With  a  mute  prayer  that  his  feeling  might  be  akin 
to  compassion,  I  invited  him  by  voice  and  gesture 
to  make  for  a  little  point  of  rocks  a  short  distance 
above  us,  where  I  proceeded  to  join  him.  I  told 
him  my  story,  and  he  readily  took  me  aboard.  He 


A  Landscape  Painter 15 

was  a  civil  old  gentleman,  of  the  seafaring  sort,  who 
appeared  to  be  cruising  about  in  the  evening  breeze 
for  his  pleasure.  On  landing,  I  visited  the  proprie 
tor  of  my  old  tub,  related  my  misadventure,  and 
offered  to  pay  damages,  if  the  boat  should  turn  out, 
in  the  morning  to  have  sustained  any.  Meanwhile, 
I  suppose,  it  is  held  secure  against  the  next  tidal  rev 
olution,  however  insidious. — But  for  my  old  gentle 
man.  I  have  decidedly  picked  up  an  acquaintance, 
if  not  made  a  friend.  I  gave  him  a  very  good  cigar; 
and  before  we  reached  home,  we  had  become  thor 
oughly  intimate.  In  exchange  for  my  cigar,  he  gave 
me  his  name;  and  there  was  that  in  his  tone  which 
seemed  to  imply  that  I  had  by  no  means  the  worst 
of  the  bargain.  His  name  is  Richard  Blunt, 
"though  most  people,"  he  added,  "call  me  Captain, 
for  short."  He  then  proceeded  to  inquire  my  own 
titles  and  pretensions.  I  told  him  no  lies,  but  I  told 
him  only  half  the  truth;  and  if  he  chooses  to  in 
dulge  mentally  in  any  romantic  understatements, 
why,  he  is  welcome,  and  bless  his  simple  heart !  The 
fact  is,  that  I  have  broken  with  the  past.  I  have 
decided,  coolly  and  calmly,  as  I  believe,  that  it  is 
necessary  to  my  success,  or,  at  any  rate,  to  my  hap 
piness,  to  abjure  for  a  while  my  conventional  self, 
and  to  assume  a  simple,  natural  character.  How 
can  a  man  be  simple  and  natural  who  is  known  to 
have  a  hundred  thousand  a  year?  That  is  the  su- 


16 A  Landscape  Painter 

preme  curse.  It's  bad  enough  to  have  it:  to  be 
known  to  have  it,  to  be  known  only  because  you  have 
it,  is  most  damnable.  I  suppose  I  am  too  proud  to 
be  successfully  rich.  Let  me  see  how  poverty  will 
serve  my  turn.  I  have  taken  a  fresh  start.  I  have 
determined  to  stand  upon  my  own  merits.  If  they 
fail  me,  I  shall  fall  back  upon  my  millions ;  but  with 
God's  help  I  will  test  them,  and  see  what  kind  of 
stuff  I  am  made  of.  To  be  young,  to  be  strong,  to 
be  poor, — such,  in  this  blessed  nineteenth  century, 
is  the  great  basis  of  solid  success.  I  have  resolved 
to  take  at  least  one  brief  draught  from  the  pure 
founts  of  inspiration  of  my  time.  I  replied  to  the 
Captain  with  such  reservations  as  a  brief  survey  of 
these  principles  dictated.  What  a  luxury  to  pass 
in  a  poor  man's  mind  for  his  brother!  I  begin  to 
respect  myself.  Thus  much  the  Captain  knows : 
that  I  am  an  educated  man,  with  a  taste  for  paint 
ing;  that  I  have  come  hither  for  the  purpose  of  cul 
tivating  this  taste  by  the  study  of  coast  scenery,  and 
for  my  health.  I  have  reason  to  believe,  moreover, 
that  he  suspects  me  of  limited  means  and  of  being 
a  good  deal  of  an  economist.  Amen!  Vogue  la 
gatire!  But  the  point  of  my  story  is  in  his  very 
hospitable  offer  of  lodgings.  I  had  been  telling  him 
of  my  ill  success  of  the  morning  in  the  pursuit  of 
the  same.  He  is  an  odd  union  of  the  gentleman  of 
the  old  school  and  the  old-fashioned,  hot-headed 


A  Landscape  Painter  17 

merchant-captain.     I  suppose  that  certain  traits  in 
these  characters  are  readily  convertible. 

"Young  man,"  said  he,  after  taking  several  medi 
tative  puffs  of  his  cigar,  "I  don't  see  the  point  of 
your  living  in  a  tavern,  when  there  are  folks  about 
you  with  more  house-room  than  they  know  what  to 
do  with.  A  tavern  is  only  half  a  house,  just  as  one 
of  these  new-fashioned  screw-propellers  is  only  half 
a  ship.  Suppose  you  walk  round  and  take  a  look 
at  my  place.  I  own  quite  a  respectable  house  over 
yonder  to  the  left  of  the  town.  Do  you  see  that  old 
wharf  with  the .  tumble-down  warehouses,  and  the 
long  row  of  elms  behind  it?  I  live  right  in  the 
midst  of  the  elms.  We  have  the  dearest  little  gar 
den  in  the  world,  stretching  down  to  the  water's 
edge.  It's  all  as  quiet  as  anything  can  be,  short  of 
a  graveyard.  The  back  windows,  you  know,  over 
look  the  harbor;  and  you  can  see  twenty  miles  up 
the  bay,  and  fifty  miles  out  to  sea.  You  can  paint 
to  yourself  there  the  livelong  day,  with  no  more 
fear  of  intrusion  than  if  you  were  out  yonder  at  the 
light-ship.  There's  no  one  but  myself  and  my 
daughter,  who's  a  perfect  lady,  Sir.  She  teaches 
music  in  a  young  ladies'  school.  You  see,  money's 
an  object,  as  they  say.  We  have  never  taken  board 
ers  yet,  because  none  came  in  our  track ;  but  I  guess 
we  can  learn  the  ways.  I  suppose  you've  boarded 
before ;  you  can  put  us  up  to  a  thing  or  two." 


18 A  Landscape  Painter 

There  was  something  so  kindly  and  honest  in  the 
old  man's  weather-beaten  face,  something  so  friendly 
in  his  address,  that  I  forthwith  struck  a  bargain 
with  him,  subject  to  his  daughter's  approval.  I  am 
to  have  her  answer  to-morrow.  This  same  daugh 
ter  strikes  me  as  rather  a  dark  spot  in  the  picture. 
Teacher  in  a  young  ladies'  school, — probably  the 

establishment  of  which  Mrs.  M spoke  to  me.  I 

suppose  she's  over  thirty.  I  think  I  know  the 
species. 

June  1 2th,  A.M. — I  have  really  nothing  to  do  but 
to  scribble.  "Barkis  is  willing."  Captain  Blunt 
brought  me  word  this  morning  that  his  daughter 
smiles  propitious.  I  am  to  report  this  evening;  but 
I  shall  send  my  slender  baggage  in  an  hour  or 
two. 

p.  M. — Here  I  am,  housed.  The  house  is  less 
than  a  mile  from  the  inn,  and  reached  by  a  very 
pleasant  road,  skirting  the  harbor.  At  about  six 
o'clock  I  presented  myself.  Captain  Blunt  had  de 
scribed  the  place.  A  very  civil  old  negress  admitted 
me,  and  ushered  me  into  the  garden,  where  I  found 
my  friends  watering  their  flowers.  The  old  man 
was  in  his  house-coat  and  slippers.  He  gave  me  a 
cordial  welcome.  There  is  something  delightfully 
easy  in  his  manners, — and  in  Miss  Blunt's,  too,  for 
that  matter.  She  received  me  very  nicely.  The 
late  Mrs.  Blunt  was  probably  a  well-bred  woman. 


A  Landscape  Painter  19 

As  for  Miss  Blunt's  being  thirty,  she  is  about 
twenty- four.  She  wore  a  fresh  white  dress,  with  a 
violet  ribbon  at  her  neck,  and  a  rosebud  in  her  but 
ton-hole, — or  whatever  corresponds  thereto  on  the 
feminine  bosom.  I  thought  I  discerned  in  this  cos 
tume  a  vague  intention  of  courtesy,  of  deference,  of 
celebrating  my  arrival.  I  don't  believe  Miss  Blunt 
wears  white  muslin  every  day.  She  shook  hands 
with  me,  and  made  me  a  very  frank  little  speech 
about  her  hospitality.  "We  have  never  had  any  in 
mates  before,"  said  she ;  "and  we  are,  consequently, 
new  to  the  business.  I  don't  know  what  you  expect. 
I  hope  you  don't  expect  a  great  deal.  You  must  ask 
for  anything  you  want.  If  we  can  give  it,  we  shall 
be  very  glad  to  do  so ;  if  we  can't,  I  give  you  warn 
ing  that  we  shall  refuse  outright."  Bravo,  Miss 
Blunt !  The  best  of  it  is,  that  she  is  decidedly  beau 
tiful, — and  in  the  grand  manner:  tall,  and  rather 
plump.  What  is  the  orthodox  description  of  a 
pretty  girl? — white  and  red?  Miss  Blunt  is  not  a 
pretty  girl,  she  is  a  handsome  woman.  She  leaves 
an  impression  of  black  and  red ;  that  is,  she  is  a  florid 
brunette.  She  has  a  great  deal  of  wavy  black  hair, 
which  encircles  her  head  like  a  dusky  glory,  a  smoky 
halo.  Her  eyebrows,  too,  are  black,  but  her  eyes 
themselves  are  of  a  rich  blue  gray,  the  color  of 
those  slate-cliffs  which  I  saw  yesterday,  weltering 
under  the  tide.  Her  mouth,  however,  is  her  strong 


20 A  Landscape  Painter 

point.  It  is  very  large,  and  contains  the  finest  row 
of  teeth  in  all  this  weary  world.  Her  smile  is  emi 
nently  intelligent.  Her  chin  is  full,  and  somewhat 
heavy.  All  this  is  a  tolerable  catalogue,  but  no 
picture.  I  have  been  tormenting  my  brain  to  dis 
cover  whether  it  was  her  coloring  or  her  form  that 
impressed  me  most.  Fruitless  speculation!  Seri 
ously,  I  think  it  was  neither ;  it  was  her  movement. 
She  walks  a  queen.  It  was  the  conscious  poise  of 
her  head,  the  unconscious  "hang"  of  her  arms,  the 
careless  grace  and  dignity  with  which  she  lingered 
along  the  garden-path,  smelling  a  red  red  rose !  She 
has  very  little  to  say,  apparently;  but  when  she 
speaks,  it  is  to  the  point,  and  if  the  point  suggests 
it,  with  a  very  sweet  smile.  Indeed,  if  she  is  not 
talkative,  it  is  not  from  timidity.  Is  it  from  indif 
ference?  Time  will  elucidate  this,  as  well  as  other 
matters.  I  cling  to  the  hypothesis  that  she  is  amia 
ble.  She  is,  moreover,  intelligent;  she  is  probably 
quite  reserved ;  and  she  is  possibly  very  proud.  She 
is,  in  short,  a  woman  of  character.  There  you  are, 
Miss  Blunt,  at  full  length, — emphatically  the  por 
trait  of  a  lady.  After  tea,  she  gave  us  some  music 
in  the  parlor.  I  confess  that  I  was  more  taken  with 
the  picture  of  the  dusky  little  room,  lighted  by  the 
single  candle  on  the  piano,  and  by  the  effect  of  Miss 
Blunt's  performance,  than  with  its  meaning.  She 
appears  to  possess  a  very  brilliant  touch. 


A  Landscape  Painter 21 

June  i8th. — I  have  now  been  here  almost  a  week. 
I  occupy  two  very  pleasant  rooms.  My  painting- 
room  is  a  vast  and  rather  bare  apartment,  with  a 
very  good  southern  light.  I  have  decked  it  out 
with  a  few  old  prints  and  sketches,  and  have  already 
grown  very  fond  of  it.  When  I  had  disposed  my 
artistic  odds  and  ends  in  as  picturesque  a  fashion 
as  possible,  I  called  in  my  hosts.  The  Captain 
looked  about  silently  for  some  moments,  and  then 
inquired  hopefully  if  I  had  ever  tried  my  hand  at  a 
ship.  On  learning  that  I  had  not  yet  got  to  ships, 
he  relapsed  into  a  deferential  silence.  His  daughter 
smiled  and  questioned  very  graciously,  and  called 
everything  beautiful  and  delightful;  which  rather 
disappointed  me,  as  I  had  taken  her  to  be  a  woman 
of  some  originality.  She  is  rather  a  puzzle ;: — or 
is  she,  indeed,  a  very  commonplace  person,  and  the 
fault  in  me,  who  am  forever  taking  women  to  mean 
a  great  deal  more  than  their  Maker  intended?  Re 
garding  Miss  Blunt  I  have  collected  a  few  facts. 
She  is  not  twenty- four,  but  twenty-seven  years  old. 
She  has  taught  music  ever  since  she  was  twenty,  in 
a  large  boarding-school  just  out  of  the  town,  where 
she  originally  got  her  education.  Her  salary  in  this 
establishment,  which  is,  I  believe,  a  tolerably  flour 
ishing  one,  and  the  proceeds  of  a  few  additional 
lessons,  constitute  the  chief  revenues  of  the  house 
hold.  But  Blunt  fortunately  owns  his  house,  and 


22  A  Landscape  Painter 

his  needs  and  habits  are  of  the  simplest  kind.  What 
does  he  or  his  daughter  know  of  the  great  worldly 
theory  of  necessities,  fhe  great  worldly  scale  of 
pleasures?  Miss  Blunt' s  only  luxuries  are  a  sub 
scription  to  the  circulating  library,  and  an  occa 
sional  walk  on  the  beach,  which,  like  one  of  Miss 
Bronte's  heroines,  she  paces  in  company  with  an 
old  Newfoundland  dog.  I  am  afraid  she  is  sadly 
ignorant.  She  reads  nothing  but  novels.  I  am 
bound  to  believe,  however,  that  she  has  derived  from 
the  perusal  of  these  works  a  certain  practical  science 
of  her  own.  "I  read  all  the  novels  I  can  get,"  she 
said  yesterday;  "but  I  only  like  the  good  ones.  I 
do  so  like  Zanoni,  which  I  have  just  finished."  I 
must  set  her  to  work  at  some  of  the  masters.  I 
should  like  some  of  those  fretful  New- York  heir 
esses  to  see  how  this  woman  lives.  I  wish,  too,  that 
half  a  dozen  of  ces  messieurs  of  the  clubs  might 
take  a  peep  at  the  present  way  of  life  of  their  hum 
ble  servant.  We  breakfast  at  eight  o'clock.  Im 
mediately  afterwards,  Miss  Blunt,  in  a  shabby  old 
bonnet  and  shawl,  starts  off  to  school.  If  the 
weather  is  fine,  the  Captain  goes  out  a-fishing,  and 
I  am  left  to  my  own  devices.  Twice  I  have  accom 
panied  the  old  man.  The  second  time  I  was  lucky 
enough  to  catch  a  big  bluefish,  which  we  had  for 
dinner.  The  Captain  is  an  excellent  specimen  of 
the  sturdy  navigator,  with  his  loose  blue  clothes,  his 


A  Landscape  Painter 23 

ultra-divergent  legs,  his  crisp  white  hair,  and  his 
jolly  thick-skinned  visage.  He  comes  of  a  sea-far 
ing  English  race.  There  is  more  or  less  of  the 
ship's  cabin  in  the  general  aspect  of  this  antiquated 
house.  I  have  heard  the  winds  whistle  about  its 
walls,  on  two  or  three  occasions,  in  true  mid-ocean 
style.  And  then  the  illusion  is  heightened,  some 
how  or  other,  by  the  extraordinary  intensity  of  the  . 
light.  My  painting-room  is  a  grand  observatory  of 
the  clouds.  I  sit  by  the  half -hour,  watching  them 
sail  past  my  high,  uncurtained  windows.  At  the 
back  part  of  the  room,  something  tells  you  that  they 
belong  to  an  ocean  sky;  and  there,  in  truth,  as  you 
draw  nearer,  you  behold  the  vast,  gray  complement 
of  sea.  This  quarter  of  the  town  is  perfectly  quiet. 
Human  activity  seems  to  have  passed  over  it,  never 
again  to  return,  and  to  have  left  a  kind  of  deposit 
of  melancholy  resignation.  The  streets  are  clean, 
bright,  and  airy ;  but  this  fact  seems  only  to  add  to 
the  intense  sobriety.  It  implies  that  the  unob 
structed  heavens  are  in  the  secret  of  their  decline. 
There  is  something  ghostly  in  the  perpetual  still 
ness.  We  frequently  hear  the  rattling  of  the  yards 
and  the  issuing  of  orders  on  the  barks  and  schooners 
anchored  out  in  the  harbor. 

June   28th. — My   experiment   works    far   better 
than  I  had  hoped.    I  am  thoroughly  at  my  ease ;  my 


24 A  Landscape  Painter 

peace  of  mind  quite  passeth  understanding.  I  work 
diligently;  I  have  none  but  pleasant  thoughts.  The 
past  has  almost  lost  its  terrors.  For  a  week  now  I 
have  been  out  sketching  daily.  The  Captain  carries 
me  to  a  certain  point  on  the  shore  of  the  harbor,  I 
disembark  and  strike  across  the  fields  to  a  spot 
where  I  have  established  a  kind  of  rendezvous  with 
a  particular  effect  of  rock  and  shadow,  which  has 
been  tolerably  faithful  to  its  appointment.  Here  I 
set  up  my  easel,  and  paint  till  sunset.  Then  I  re 
trace  my  steps  and  meet  the  boat.  I  am  in  every 
way  much  encouraged.  The  horizon  of  my  work 
grows  perceptibly  wider.  And  then  I  am  inexpres 
sibly  happy  in  the  conviction  that  I  am  not  wholly 
unfit  for  a  life  of  (moderate)  labor  and  (compara 
tive)  privation.  I  am  quite  in  love  with  my  pov 
erty,  if  I  may  call  it  so.  As  why  should  I  not?  At 
this  rate  I  don't  spend  eight  hundred  a  year. 

July  I2th. — We  have  been  having  a  week  of  bad 
weather :  constant  rain,  night  and  day.  This  is  cer 
tainly  at  once  the  brightest  and  the  blackest  spot  in 
New  England.  The  skies  can  smile,  assuredly;  but 
how  they  can  frown!  I  have  been  painting  rather 
languidly,  and  at  a  great  disadvantage,  at  my  win 
dow.  .  .  .  Through  all  this  pouring  and  pattering, 
Miss  Blunt  sallies  forth  to  her  pupils.  She  envelops 
her  beautiful  head  in  a  great  woollen  hood,  her  beau- 


A  Landscape  Painter 25 

tiful  figure  in  a  kind  of  feminine  mackintosh;  her 
feet  she  puts  into  heavy  clogs,  and  over  the  whole 
she  balances  a  cotton  umbrella.  When  she  conies 
home,  with  the  rain-drops  glistening  on  her  red 
cheeks  and  her  dark  lashes,  her  cloak  bespattered 
with  mud,  and  her  hands  red  with  the  cool  damp, 
she  is  a  profoundly  wholesome  spectacle.  I  never 
fail  to  make  her  a  very  low  bow,  for  which  she 
repays  me  with  an  extraordinary  smile.  This  work 
ing-day  side  of  her  character  is  what  especially 
pleases  me  in  Miss  Blunt.  This  holy  working-dress 
of  loveliness  and  dignity  sits  upon  her  with  the  sim 
plicity  of  an  antique  drapery.  Little  use  has  she 
for  whalebones  and  furbelows.  What  a  poetry 
there  is,  after  all,  in  red  hands !  I  kiss  yours,  Made 
moiselle.  I  do  so  because  you  are  self -helpful ;  be 
cause  you  earn  your  living ;  because  you  are  honest, 
simple,  and  ignorant  (for  a  sensible  woman,  that 
is)  ;  because  you  speak  and  act  to  the  point;  because, 
in  short,  you  are  so  unlike — certain  of  your  sisters. 

July  i6th. — On  Monday  it  cleared  up  generously. 
When  I  went  to  my  window,  on  rising,  I  found  sky 
and  sea  looking,  for  their  brightness  and  freshness, 
like  a  clever  English  water-color.  The  ocean  is  of 
a  deep  purple  blue;  above  it,  the  pure,  bright  sky 
looks  pale,  though  it  bends  with  an  infinite  depth 
over  the  inland  horizon.  Here  and  there  on  the 


26  A  Landscape  Painter 

dark  breezy  water  gleams  the  white  cap  of  a  wave, 
or  flaps  the  white  cloak  of  a  fishing-boat.  I  have 
been  sketching  sedulously ;  I  have  discovered,  within 
a  couple  of  miles'  walk,  a  large,  lonely  pond,  set  in 
quite  a  grand  landscape  of  barren  rocks  and  grassy 
slopes.  At  one  extremity  is  a  broad  outlook  on  the 
open  sea;  at  the  other,  deep  buried  in  the  foliage  of 
an  apple-orchard,  stands  an _old_  haunted-lookjng 
farmhouse.  To  the  west  of  the  pond  is  a  wide  ex 
panse  of  rock  and  grass,  of  beach  and  marsh.  The 
sheep  browse  over  it  as  upon  a  Highland  moor. 
Except  a  few  stunted  firs  and  cedars,  there  is  not 
a  tree  in  sight.  When  I  want  shade,  I  seek  it  in  the 
shelter  of  one  of  the  great  mossy  boulders  which  up 
heave  their  scintillating  shoulders  to  the  sun,  or  of 
the  long  shallow  dells  where  a  tangle  of  blackberry- 
bushes  hedges  about  a  sky-reflecting  pool.  I  have 
encamped  over  against  a  plain,  brown  hillside, 
which,  with  laborious  patience,  I  am  transferring 
to  canvas ;  and  as  we  have  now  had  the  same  clear 
sky  for  several  days,  I  have  almost  finished  quite 
a  satisfactory  little  study.  I  go  forth  immediately 
after  breakfast.  Miss  Blunt  furnishes  me  with  a 
napkin  full  of  bread  and  cold  meat,  which  at  the 
noonday  hour,  in  my  sunny  solitude,  within  sight 
of  the  slumbering  ocean,  I  voraciously  convey  to 
my  lips  with  my  discolored  fingers.  At  seven  o'clock 
I  return  to  tea,  at  which  repast  we  each  tell  the  story 


A  Landscape  Painter 27 

of  our  day's  work.  For  poor  Miss  Blunt,  it  is  day 
after  day  the  same  story:  a  wearisome  round  of 
visits  to  the  school,  and  to  the  houses  of  the  mayor, 
the  parson,  the  butcher,  the  baker,  whose  young  la 
dies,  of  course,  all  receive  instruction  on  the  piano. 
But  she  doesn't  complain,  nor,  indeed,  does  she  look 
very  weary.  When  she  has  put  on  a  fresh  calico 
dress  for  tea,  and  arranged  her  hair  anew,  and  with 
these  improvements  flits  about  with  that  quiet 
hither  and  thither  of  her  gentle  footsteps,  preparing 
our  evening  meal,  peeping  into  the  teapot,  cutting 
the  solid  loaf, — or  when,  sitting  down  on  the  low 
door-step,  she  reads  out  select  scraps  from  the  even 
ing  paper, — or  else,  when,  tea  being  over,  she  folds 
her  arms,  (an  attitude  which  becomes  her  mightily,) 
and,  still  sitting  on  the  door-step,  gossips  away  the 
evening  in  comfortable  idleness,  while  her  father 
and  I  indulge  in  the  fragrant  pipe,  and  watch  the 
lights  shining  out,  one  by  one,  in  different  quarters 
of  the  darkling  bay:  at  these  moments  she  is  as 
pretty,  as  cheerful,  as  careless  as  it  becomes  a  sen 
sible  woman  to  be.  What  a  pride  the  Captain  takes 
in  his  daughter!  And  she,  in  return,  how  perfect 
is  her  devotion  to  the  old  man !  He  is  proud  of  her 
grace,  of  her  tact,  of  her  good  sense,  of  her  wit, 
such  as  it  is.  He  thinks  her  to  be  the  most  accom 
plished  of  women.  He  waits  upon  her  as  if,  instead 
yi  his  old  familiar  Esther,  she  were  a  newly  in- 


28 A  Landscape  Painter 

ducted  daughter-in-law.  And  indeed,  if  I  were  his 
own  son,  he  could  not  be  kinder  to  me.  They  are 
certainly — nay,  why  should  I  not  say  it? — we  are 
certainly  a  very  happy  little  household.  Will  it  last 
forever?  I  say  we,  because  both  father  and  daugh 
ter  have  given  me  a  hundred  assurances — he  direct, 
and  she,  if  I  don't  flatter  myself,  after  the  manner 
of  her  sex,  indirect — that  I  am  already  a  valued 
friend.  It  is  natural  enough  that  I  should  have 
gained  their  good-will.  They  have  received  at  my 
hands  inveterate  courtesy.  The  way  to  the  old 
man's  heart  is  through  a  studied  consideration  of 
his  daughter.  He  knows,  I  imagine,  that  I  admire 
Miss  Blunt.  But  if  I  should  at  any  time  fall  below 
the  mark  of  ceremony,  I  should  have  an  account  to 
settle  with  him.  All  this  is  as  it  should  be.  When 
people  have  to  economize  with  the  dollars  and  cents, 
they  have  a  right  to  be  splendid  in  their  feelings. 
I  have  prided  myself  not  a  little  on  my  good  man 
ners  towards  my  hostess.  That  my  bearing  has  been 
without  reproach  is,  however,  a  fact  which  I  do  not, 
in  any  degree,  set  down  here  to  my  credit;  for  I 
would  defy  the  most  impertinent  of  men  (whoever 
he  is)  to  forget  himself  with  this  young  lady,  with 
out  leave  unmistakably  given.  Those  deep,  dark 
eyes  have  a  strong  prohibitory  force.  I  record  the 
circumstance  simply  because  in  future  years,  when 
my  charming  friend  shall  have  become  a  distant 


A  Landscape  Painter 29 

shadow,  it  will  be  pleasant,  in  turning  over  these 
pages,  to  find  written  testimony  to  a  number  of 
points  which  I  shall  be  apt  to  charge  solely  upon  my 
imagination.  I  wonder  whether  Miss  Blunt,  in  days 
to  come,  referring  to  the  tables  of  her  memory  for 
some  trivial  matter-of-fact,  some  prosaic  date  or 
half -buried  landmark,  will  also  encounter  this  little 
secret  of  ours,  as  I  may  call  it, — will  decipher  an 
old  faint  note  to  this  effect,  overlaid  with  the  mem-  i/ 
oranda  of  intervening  years.  Of  course  she  will. 
Sentiment  aside,  she  is  a  woman  of  an  excellent 
memory.  Whether  she  forgives  or  not  I  know  not ; 
but  she  certainly  doesn't  forget.  Doubtless,  virtue 
is  its  own  reward ;  but  there  is  a  double  satisfaction 
in  being  polite  to  a  person  on  whom  it  tells.  An 
other  reason  for  my  pleasant  relations  with  the  Cap 
tain  is,  that  I  afford  him  a  chance  to  rub  up  his 
rusty  old  cosmopolitanism,  and  trot  out  his  little 
scraps  of  old-fashioned  reading,  some  of  which  are 
very  curious.  It  is  a  great  treat  for  him  to  spin  his 
threadbare  yarns  over  again  to  a  sympathetic  lis 
tener.  These  warm  July  evenings,  in  the  sweet- 
smelling  garden,  are  just  the  proper  setting  for  his 
amiable  garrulities.  An  odd  enough  relation  sub 
sists  between  us  on  this  point.  Like  many  gentle 
men  of  his  calling,  the  Captain  is  harassed  by  an1). 
irresistible  desire  to  romance,  even  on  the  least 
promising  themes;  and  it  is  vastly  amusing  to  ob- 


30  A  Landscape  Painter 

serve  how  he  will  auscultate,  as  it  were,  his  audi 
tor's  inmost  mood,  to  ascertain  whether  it  is  pre 
pared  for  the  absorption  of  his  insidious  fibs. 
Sometimes  they  perish  utterly  in  the  transition: 
they  are  very  pretty,  I  conceive,  in  the  deep  and 
briny  well  of  the  Captain's  fancy;  but  they  won't 
bear  being  transplanted  into  the  shallow  inland  lakes 
of  my  land-bred  apprehension.  At  other  times,  the 
auditor  being  in  a  dreamy,  sentimental,  and  alto 
gether  unprincipled  mood,  he  will  drink  the  old 
man's  salt-water  by  the  bucketful  and  feel  none  the 
worse  for  it.  Which  is  the  worse,  wilfully  to  tell,  or 
wilfully  to  believe,  a  pretty  little  falsehood  which 
will  not  hurt  any  one?  I  suppose  you  can't  believe 
wilfully;  you  only  pretend  to  believe.  My  part  of 
the  game,  therefore,  is  certainly  as  bad  as  the  Cap 
tain's.  Perhaps  I  take  kindly  to  his  beautiful  per 
versions  of  fact,  because  I  am  myself  engaged  in 
one,  because  I  am  sailing  under  false  colors  of  the 
deepest  dye.  I  wonder  whether  my  friends  have 
any  suspicion  of  the  real  state  of  the  case.  How 
should  they  ?  I  fancy,  that,  on  the  whole,  I  play  my 
part  pretty  well.  I  am  delighted  to  find  it  come  so 
easy.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  experience  little  diffi 
culty  in  foregoing  my  hundred  petty  elegancies  and 
luxuries, — for  to  these,  thank  Heaven,  I  was  not  so 
indissolubly  wedded  that  one  wholesome  shock  could 
not  loosen  my  bonds, — but  that  I  manage  more 


-7 
,  *>   • 


i^^      A  Landscape  Painter 81 

cleverly  than  I  expected  to  stifle  those  innumerable 
tacit  illusions  which  might  serve  effectually  to  belie 
my  character. 

Sunday,  July  20tH. — This  has  been  a  very  pleasant 
day  for  me;  although  in  it,  of  course,  I  have  done 
no  manner  of  work.  I  had  this  morning  a  delight 
ful  tete-a-tete  with  my  hostess.  She  had  sprained 
her  ankle,  coming  downstairs;  and  so,  instead  of 
going  forth  to  Sunday  school  and  to  meeting,  she 
was  obliged  to  remain  at  home  on  the  sofa.  The 
Captain,  who  is  of  a  very  punctilious  piety,  went  off 
alone.  When  I  came  into  the  parlor,  as  the  church- 
bells  were  ringing,  Miss  Blunt  asked  me  if  I  never 
went  to  meeting.  "Never  when  there  is  anything 
better  to  do  at  home/'  said  I. 

"What  is  better  than  going  to  church?"  she 
asked,  with  charming  simplicity. 

She  was  reclining  on  the  sofa,  with  her  foot  on  a 
pillow,  and  her  Bible  in  her  lap.  She  looked  by  no 
means  afflicted  at  having  to  be  absent  from  divine 
service;  and,  instead  of  answering  her  question,  I 
took  the  liberty  of  telling  her  so. 

"I  am  sorry  to  be  absent,"  said  she.  "You  know 
it's  my  only  festival  in  the  week." 

"So  you  look  upon  it  as  a  festival,"  said  I. 

"Isn't  it  a  pleasure  to  meet  one's  acquaintance? 
I  confess  I  am  never  deeply  interested  in  the  ser- 


32 A  Landscape  Painter ^ 

mon,  and  I  very  much  dislike  teaching  the  children ; 
but  I  like  wearing  my  best  bonnet,  and  singing  in 
the  choir,  and  walking  part  of  the  way  home 
with " 

"With  whom?" 

"With  any  one  who  offers  to  walk  with  me." 

"With  Mr.  Johnson,  for  instance,"  said  I. 

Mr.  Johnson  is  a  young  lawyer  in  the  village, 
who  calls  here  once  a  week,  and  whose  attentions  to 
Miss  Blunt  have  been  remarked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "Mr.  Johnson  will  do  as  an 
instance." 

"How  he  will  miss  you!" 

"I  suppose  he  will.  We  sing  off  the  same  book. 
What  are  you  laughing  at?  He  kindly  permits  me 
to  hold  the  book,  while  he  stands  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets.  Last  Sunday  I  quite  lost  patience. 
'Mr.  Johnson,'  said  I,  'do  hold  the  book!  Where 
are  your  manners?'  He  burst  out  laughing  in  the 
midst  of  the  reading.  He  will  certainly  have  to 
hold  the  book  to-day." 

"What  a  'masterful  soul'  he  is !  I  suppose  he  will 
call  after  meeting." 

"Perhaps  he  will.     I  hope  so." 

"I  hope  he  won't,"  said  I,  roundly.  "I  am  going 
to  sit  down  here  and  talk  to  you,  and  I  wish  our 
tete-&-tete  not  to  be  interrupted." 

"Have  you  anything  particular  to  say?" 


A  Landscape  Painter 33 

"Nothing  so  particular  as  Mr.  Johnson,  per 
haps." 

Miss  Blunt  has  a  very  pretty  affectation  of  being 
more  matter-of-fact  than  she  really  is. 

"His  rights,  then,"  said  she,  "are  paramount  to 
yours." 

"Ah,  you  admit  that  he  has  rights  ?" 

"Not  at  all.    I  simply  assert  that  you  have  none." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  have  claims  which  I  mean 
to  enforce.  I  have  a  claim  upon  your  undivided  at 
tention,  when  I  pay  you  a  morning  call." 

"Your  claim  is  certainly  answered.  Have  I  been 
uncivil,  pray?" 

"Not  uncivil,  perhaps,  but  inconsiderate.  You 
have  been  sighing  for  the  company  of  a  third  per 
son,  which  you  can't  expect  me  to  relish." 

"Why  not,  pray?  If  I,  a  lady,  can  put  up  with 
Mr.  Johnson's  society,  why  shouldn't  you,  one  of 
his  own  sex?" 

"Because  he  is  so  outrageously  conceited.  You, 
as  a  lady,  or  at  any  rate  as  a  woman,  like  conceited 
men." 

"Ah,  yes;  I  have  no  doubt  that  I,  as  a  woman, 
have  all  kinds  of  improper  tastes.  That's  an  old 
story." 

"Admit,  at  any  rate,  that  our  friend  is  conceited." 

"Admit  it?  Why,  I  have  said  so  a  hundred 
times.  I  have  told  him  so." 


34 A  Landscape  Painter 

"Indeed!    It  has  come  to  that,  then?" 

'To  what,  pray?" 

"To  that  critical  point  in  the  friendship  of  a  lady 
and  gentleman,  when  they  bring  against  each  other 
all  kinds  of  delightful  charges  of  moral  obliquity. 
Take  care,  Miss  Blunt!  A  couple  of  intelligent 
New-Englanders,  of  opposite  sex,  young,  unmar 
ried,  are  pretty  far  gone,  when  they  begin  morally 
to  reprobate  each  other.  So  you  told  Mr.  Johnson 
that  he  is  conceited  ?  And  I  suppose  you  added,  that 
he  was  also  dreadfully  satirical  and  skeptical? 
What  was  his  rejoinder?  Let  me  see.  Did  he  ever 
tell  you  that  you  were  a  little  bit  affected?" 

"No :  he  left  that  for  you  to  say,  in  this  very  in 
genious  manner.  Thank  you,  sir." 

"He  left  it  for  me  to  deny,  which  is  a  great  deal 
prettier.  Do  you  think  the  manner  ingenious?" 

"I  think  the  matter,  considering  the  day  and  hour, 
very  profane,  Mr.  Locksley.  Suppose  you  go  away 
and  let  me  read  my  Bible." 

"Meanwhile,"  I  asked,  "what  shall  I  do?" 

"Go  and  read  yours,  if  you  have  one." 

"I  haven't." 

I  was,  nevertheless,  compelled  to  retire,  with  the 
promise  of  a  second  audience  in  half  an  hour.  Poor 
Miss  Blunt  owes  it  to  her  conscience  to  read  a  cer 
tain  number  of  chapters.  What  a  pure  and  upright 
soul  she  is !  And  what  an  edifying  spectacle  is  much 


A  Landscape  Painter 35 

of  our  feminine  piety!  Women  find  a  place  for 
everything  in  their  commodious  little  minds,  just  as 
they  do  in  their  wonderfully  subdivided  trunks, 
when  they  go  on  a  journey.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
this  young  lady  stows  away  her  religion  in  a  cor 
ner,  just  as  she  does  her  Sunday  bonnet, — and,  when 
the  proper  moment  comes,  draws  it  forth,  and  re 
flects  while  she  assumes  it  before  the  glass,  and 
blows  away  the  strictly  imaginary  dust:  for  what 
worldly  impurity  can  penetrate  through  half  a  dozen 
layers  of  cambric  and  tissue-paper?  Dear  me,  what 
a  comfort  it  is  to  have  a  nice,  fresh,  holiday  faith ! — 
When  I  returned  to  the  parlor,  Miss  Blunt  was  still 
sitting  with  her  Bible  in  her  lap.  Somehow  or 
other,  I  no  longer  felt  in  the  mood  for  jesting.  So 
I  asked  her  soberly  what  she  had  been  reading. 
Soberly  she  answered  me.  She  inquired  how  I  had 
spent  my  half -hour. 

"In  thinking  good  Sabbath  thoughts,"  I  said.  "I 
have  been  walking  in  the  garden."  And  then  I 
spoke  my  mind.  "I  have  been  thanking  Heaven 
that  it  has  led  me,  a  poor,  friendless  wanderer,  into 
so  peaceful  an  anchorage." 

"Are  you,  then,  so  poor  and  friendless?"  asked 
Miss  Blunt,  quite  abruptly. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  an  art-student  under  thirty 
who  wasn't  poor?"  I  answered.  "Upon  my  word,  I 
have  yet  to  sell  my  first  picture.  Then,  as  for  being 


36 A  Landscape  Painter 

friendless,  there  are  not  five  people  in  the  world  who 
really  care  for  me." 

"Really  care?  I  am  afraid  you  look  too  close. 
And  then  I  think  five  good  friends  is  a  very  large 
number.  I  think  myself  very  well  off  with  a  couple. 
But  if  you  are  friendless,  it's  probably  your  own 
fault." 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  said  I,  sitting  down  in  the  rock 
ing-chair;  "and  yet,  perhaps,  it  isn't.  Have  you 
found  me  so  very  repulsive?  Haven't  you,  on  the 
contrary,  found  me  rather  sociable?" 

She  folded  her  arms,  and  quietly  looked  at  me 
for  a  moment,  before  answering.  I  shouldn't  won 
der  if  I  blushed  a  little. 

"You  want  a  compliment,  Mr.  Locksley;  that's 
the  long  and  short  of  it.  I  have  not  paid  you  a 
compliment  since  you  have  been  here.  How  you 
must  have  suffered!  But  it's  a  pity  you  couldn't 
have  waited  awhile  longer,  instead  of  beginning  to 
angle  with  that  very  clumsy  bait.  For  an  artist, 
you  are  very  inartistic.  Men  never  know  how  to 
wait.  'Have  I  found  you  repulsive?  haven't  I  found 
you  sociable  ?'  Perhaps,  after  all,  considering  what 
I  have  in  my  mind,  it  is  as  well  that  you  asked  for 
your  compliment.  I  have  found  you  charming.  I 
say  it  freely;  and  yet  I  say,  with  equal  sincerity, 
that  I  fancy  very  few  others  would  find  you  so.  I 
can  say  decidedly  that  you  are  not  sociable.  You 


A  Landscape  Painter  37 

are  entirely  too  particular.  You  are  considerate  of 
me,  because  you  know  that  I  know  that  you  are  so. 
There's  the  rub,  you  see :  I  know  that  you  know  that 
I  know  it.  Don't  interrupt  me;  I  am  going  to  be 
eloquent.  I  want  you  to  understand  why  I  don't 
consider  you  sociable.  You  call  Mr.  Johnson  con 
ceited;  but,  really,  I  don't  believe  he's  nearly  as 
conceited  as  yourself.  You  are  too  conceited  to  be 
sociable ;  he  is  not.  I  am  an  obscure,  weak-minded 
woman, — weak-minded,  you  know,  compared  with 
men.  I  can  be  patronized, — yes,  that's  the  word. 
Would  you  be  equally  amiable  with  a  person  as 
strong,  as  clear-sighted  as  yourself,  with  a  person 
equally  averse  with  yourself  to  being  under  an  ob 
ligation?  I  think  not.  Of  course  it's  delightful  to 
charm  people.  Who  wouldn't?  There  is  no  harm 
in  it,  as  long  as  the  charmer  does  not  set  up  for  a 
public  benefactor.  If  I  were  a  man,  a  clever  man 
like  yourself,  who  had  seen  the  world,  who  was  not 
to  be  charmed  and  encouraged,  but  to  be  convinced 
and  refuted,  would  you  be  equally  amiable?  It  will 
perhaps  seem  absurd  to  you,  and  it  will  certainly 
seem  egotistical,  but  I  consider  myself  sociable,  for 
all  that  I  have  only  a  couple  of  friends,— my  father 
and  the  principal  of  the  school.  That  is,  I  mingle 
with  women  without  any  second  thought.  Not  that 
I  wish  you  to  do  so :  on  the  contrary,  if  the  contrary 
is  natural  to  you.  But  I  don't  believe  you  mingle 


88  A  Landscape  Painter 

in  the  same  way  with  men.  You  may  ask  me  what 
I  know  about  it.  Of  course  I  know  nothing :  I  sim 
ply  guess.  When  I  have  done,  indeed,  I  mean  to 
beg  your  pardon  for  all  I  have  said ;  but  until  then, 
give  me  a  chance.  You  are  incapable  of  listening 
deferentially  to  stupid,  bigoted  persons.  I  am  not, 
I  do  it  every  day.  Ah,  you  have  no  idea  what 
nice  manners  I  have  in  the  exercise  of  my  profes 
sion!  Every  day  I  have  occasion  to  pocket  my 
pride  and  to  stifle  my  precious  sense  of  the  ridicu 
lous, — of  which,  of  course,  you  think  I  haven't  a 
bit.  It  is,  for  instance,  a  constant  vexation  to  me 
to  be  poor.  It  makes  me  frequently  hate  rich  wo 
men  ;  it  makes  me  despise  poor  ones.  I  don't  know 
whether  you  suffer  acutely  from  the  narrowness 
of  your  own  means;  but  if  you  do,  I  dare  say  you 
shun  rich  men.  I  don't.  I  like  to  go  into  rich  peo 
ple's  houses,  and  to  be  very  polite  to  the  ladies  of 
the  house,  especially  if  they  are  very  well-dressed 
and  ignorant  and  vulgar.  All  women  are  like  me  in 
this  respect ;  and  all  men  more  or  less  like  you.  That 
is,  after  all,  the  text  of  my  sermon.  Compared  with 
us,  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  you  are  arrant 
cowards, — that  we  alone  are  brave.  To  be  sociable, 
you  must  have  a  great  deal  of  pluck.  You  are  too 
fine  a  gentleman.  Go  and  teach  school,  or  open  a 
corner  grocery,  or  sit  in  a  law-office  all  day,  waiting 
for  clients :  then  you  will  be  sociable.  As  yet,  you 


A  Landscape  Painter 39 

are  only  agreeable.  It  is  your  own  fault,  if  people 
don't  care  for  you.  You  don't  care  for  them.  That 
you  should  be  indifferent  to  their  applause  is  all 
very  well ;  but  you  don't  care  for  their  indifference. 
You  are  amiable,  you  are  very  kind,  and  you  are 
also  very  lazy.  You  consider  that  you  are  work 
ing  now,  don't  you?  Many  persons  would  not  call 
it  work." 

It  was  now  certainly  my  turn  to  fold  my  arms. 

"And  now,"  added  my  companion,  as  I  did  so, 
"I  beg  your  pardon." 

"This  was  certainly  worth  waiting  for,"  said  I. 
"I  don't  know  what  answer  to  make.  My  head 
swims.  I  don't  know  whether  you  have  been  attack 
ing  me  or  praising  me.  So  you  advise  me  to  open 
a  corner  grocery,  do  you?" 

"I  advise  you  to  do  something  that  will  make  you 
a  little  less  satirical.  You  had  better  marry,  for 
instance." 

"Je  ne  demande  pas  mieux.  Will  you  have  me? 
I  can't  afford  it." 

"Marry  a  rich  woman." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Miss  Blunt.  "Because  people 
would  accuse  you  of  being  mercenary?  What  of 
that?  I  mean  to  marry  the  first  rich  man  who  of 
fers.  Do  you  know  that  I  am  tired  of  living  alone 
in  this  weary  old  way,  teaching  little  girls  their 


40 A  Landscape  Painter 

gamut,  and  turning  and  patching  my  dresses?  I 
mean  to  marry  the  first  man  who  offers." 

"Even  if  he  is  poor?" 

"Even  if  he  is  poor,  ugly,  and  stupid." 

"I  am  your  man,  then.  Would  you  take  me,  if 
I  were  to  offer?" 

"Try  and  see." 

"Must  I  get  upon  my  knees?" 

"No,  you  need  not  even  do  that.  Am  I  not  on 
mine?  It  would  be  too  fine  an  irony.  Remain  as 
you  are,  lounging  back  in  your  chair,  with  your 
thumbs  in  your  waistcoat." 

If  I  were  writing  a  romance  now,  instead  of 
transcribing  facts,  I  would  say  that  I  knew  not  what 
might  have  happened  at  this  juncture,  had  not  the 
door  opened  and  admitted  the  Captain  and  Mr. 
Johnson.  The  latter  was  in  the  highest  spirits. 

"How  are  you,  Miss  Esther?  So  you  have  been 
breaking  your  leg,  eh?  How  are  you,  Mr.  Locks- 
ley?  I  wish  I  were  a  doctor  now.  Which  is  it, 
right  or  left?" 

In  this  simple  fashion  he  made  himself  agreeable 
to  Miss  Blunt.  He  stopped  to  dinner  and  talked 
without  ceasing.  Whether  our  hostess  had  talked 
herself  out  in  her  very  animated  address  to  myself 
an  hour  before,  or  whether  she  preferred  to  oppose 
no  obstacle  to  Mr.  Johnson's  fluency,  or  whether  she 
was  indifferent  to  him,  I  know  not ;  but  she  held  her 


A  Landscape  Painter 41 

tongue  with  that  easy  grace,  that  charming  tacit 
intimation  of  "We  could,  and  we  would,"  of  which 
she  is  so  perfect  a  mistress.  This  very  interesting 
woman  has  a  number  of  pretty  traits  in  common 
with  her  town-bred  sisters;  only,  whereas  in  these 
they  are  laboriously  acquired,  in  her  they  are  se 
verely  natural.  I  am  sure,  that,  if  I  were  to  plant 
her  in  Madison  Square  to-morrow,  she  would,  after 
one  quick,  all-compassing  glance,  assume  the  nil 
admirari  in  a  manner  to  drive  the  greatest  lady  of 
them  all  to  despair.  Johnson  is  a  man  of  excellent 
intentions,  but  no  taste.  Two  or  three  times  I 
looked  at  Miss  Blunt  to  see  what  impression  his 
sallies  were  making  upon  her.  They  seemed  to 
produce  none  whatever.  But  I  know  better,  moi. 
Not  one  of _them_  escaped  her.  But  I  suppose  she 
said  to  herself  that  her  impressions  on  this  point 
were  no  business  of  mine.  Perhaps  she  was  right. 
It  is  a  disagreeable  word  to  use  of  a  woman  you 
admire;  but  I  can't  help  fancying  that  she  has  been 
a  little  soured.  By  what?  Who  shall  say?  By 
some  old  love  affair,  perhaps. 

July  24th. — This  evening  the  Captain  and  I  took 
a  half-hour's  turn  about  the  harbor.  I  asked  him 
frankly,  as  a  friend,  whether  Johnson  wants  to 
marry  his  daughter. 

"I  guess  he  does,"  said  the  old  man ;  "and  yet  I 


42 A  Landscape  Painter 

hope  he  don't.  You  know  what  he  is:  he's  smart, 
promising,  and  already  sufficiently  well  off.  But 
somehow  he  isn't  for  a  man  what  my  Esther  is  for 


a  woman." 


"That  he  isn't!"  said  I;  "and  honestly,  Captain 
Blunt,  I  don't  know  who  is " 

"Unless  it's  yourself,"  said  the  Captain. 

"Thank  you.  I  know  a  great  many  ways  in  which 
Mr.  Johnson  is  more  worthy  of  her  than  I." 

"And  I  know  one  in  which  you  are  more  worthy 
of  her  than  he, — that  is,  in  being  what  we  used  to 
call  a  gentleman." 

"Miss  Esther  made  him  sufficiently  welcome  in 
her  quiet  way,  on  Sunday,"  I  rejoined. 

"Oh,  she  respects  him,"  said  Blunt.  "As  she's 
situated,  she  might  marry  him  on  that.  You  see, 
she's  weary  of  hearing  little  girls  drum  on  the  piano. 
With  her  ear  for  music,"  added  the  Captain,  "I 
wonder  she  has  borne  it  so  long." 

"She  is  certainly  meant  for  better  things,"  said  I. 

"Well,"  answered  the  Captain,  who  has  an  hon 
est  habit  of  deprecating  your  agreement,  when  it 
occurs  to  him  that  he  has  obtained  it  for  sentiments 
which  fall  somewhat  short  of  the  stoical, — "well," 
said  he,  with  a  very  dry  expression  of  mouth,  "she's 
born  to  do  her  duty.  We  are  all  of  us  born  for 
that." 

"Sometimes  our  duty  is  rather  dreary,"  said  I. 


A  Landscape  Painter 48 

"So  it  be;  but  what's  the  help  for  it?  I  don't 
want  to  die  without  seeing  my  daughter  provided 
for.  What  she  makes  by  teaching  is  a  pretty  slim 
subsistence.  There  was  a  time  when  I  thought  she 
was  going  to  be  fixed  for  life,  but  it  all  blew  over. 
There  was  a  young  fellow  here  from  down  Boston 
way,  who  came  about  as  near  to  it  as  you  can  come, 
when  you  actually  don't.  He  and  Esther  were  ex 
cellent  friends.  One  day  Esther  came  up  to  me,  and 
looked  me  in  the  face,  and  told  me  she  was  en 
gaged. 

"  'Who  to?'  says  I,  though,  of  course,  I  knew, 
and  Esther  told  me  as  much.  'When  do  you  expect 
to  marry?'  I  asked. 

"  'When  John  grows  rich  enough,'  says  she. 

'"When  will  that  be?' 

"  'It  may  not  be  for  years,'  said  poor  Esther. 

"A  whole  year  passed,  and,  as  far  as  I  could  see, 
the  young  man  came  no  nearer  to  his  fortune.  He 
was  forever  running  to  and  fro  between  this  place 
and  Boston.  I  asked  no  questions,  because  I  knew 
that  my  poor  girl  wished  it  so.  But  at  last,  one  day, 
I  began  to  think  it  was  time  to  take  an  observation, 
and  see  whereabouts  we  stood. 

"  'Has  John  made  his  fortune  yet  ?'  I  asked. 

"  'I  don't  know,  father,'  said  Esther. 

"  'When  are  you  to  be  married?' 

"  'Never!'  said  my  poor  little  girl,  and  burst  into 


44 A  Landscape  Painter ^^ 

tears.    'Please  ask  me  no  questions/  said  she.    'Our 
engagement  is  over.     Ask  me  no  questions/ 

"  'Tell  me  one  thing/  said  I :  'where  is  that  d — d 
scoundrel  who  has  broken  rny  daughter's  heart?' 

"You  should  have  seen  the  look  she  gave  me. 

"'Broken  my  heart,  sir?  You  are  very  much 
mistaken.  I  don't  know  who  you  mean/ 

1  'I  mean  John  Banister/  said  I.     That  was  his 
name. 

"  'I  believe  Mr.  Banister  is  in  China/  says  Esther, 
as  grand  as  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  And  there  was 
an  end  of  it.  I  never  learnt  the  ins  and  outs  of  it. 
I  have  been  told  that  Banister  is  accumulating  money 
very  fast  in  the  China  trade." 

August  fth. — I  have  made  no  entry  for  more  than 
a  fortnight.  They  tell  me  I  have  been  very  ill ;  and 
I  find  no  difficulty  in  believing  them.  I  suppose  I 
took  cold,  sitting  out  so  late,  sketching.  At  all 
events,  I  have  had  a  mild  intermittent  fever.  I 
have  slept  so  much,  however,  that  the  time  has 
seemed  rather  short.  I  have  been  tenderly  nursed 
by  this  kind  old  gentleman,  his  daughter,  and  his 
maid-servant.  God  bless  them,  one  and  all!  I  say 
his  daughter,  because  old  Dorothy  informs  me  that 
for  half  an  hour  one  morning,  at  dawn,  after  a 
night  during  which  I  had  been  very  feeble,  Miss 
Blunt  relieved  guard  at  my  bedside,  while  I  lay 


A  Landscape  Painter 45 

wrapt  in  brutal  slumber.  It  is  very  jolly  to  see  sky 
and  ocean  once  again.  I  have  got  myself  into  my 
easy-chair  by  the  open  window,  with  my  shutters 
closed  and  the  lattice  open ;  and  here  I  sit  with  my 
book  on  my  knee,  scratching  away  feebly  enough. 
Now  and  then  I  peep  from  my  cool,  dark  sick-cham 
ber  out  into  the  world  of  light.  High  noon  at  mid 
summer!  What  a  spectacle!  There  are  no  clouds 
in  the  sky,  no  waves  on  the  ocean.  The  sun  has  it 
all  to  himself.  To  look  long  at  the  garden  makes 
the  eyes  water.  And  we — "Hobbs,  Nobbs,  Stokes, 
and  Nokes" — propose  to  paint  that  kingdom  of  light. 
Allans,  done! 

The  loveliest  of  women  has  just  tapped,  and 
come  in  with  a  plate  of  early  peaches.  The  peaches 
are  of  a  gorgeous  color  and  plumpness;  but  Miss 
Blunt  looks  pale  and  thin.  The  hot  weather  doesn't 
agree  with  her.  She  is  overworked.  Confound  it! 
Of  course  I  thanked  her  warmly  for  her  attentions 
during  my  illness.  She  disclaims  all  gratitude,  and 
refers  me  to  her  father  and  Mrs.  Dorothy. 

"I  allude  more  especially,"  said  I,  "to  that  little 
hour  at  the  end  of  a  weary  night,  when  you  stole  in 
like  a  kind  of  moral  Aurora,  and  drove  away  the 
shadows  from  my  brain.  That  morning,  you  know, 
I  began  to  get  better." 

"It  was,  indeed,  a  very  little  hour,"  said  Miss 
Blunt.  "It  was  about  ten  minutes."  And  then  she 


46 A  Landscape  Painter 

began  to  scold  me  for  presuming  to  touch  a  pen 
during  my  convalescence.  She  laughs  at  me,  in 
deed,  for  keeping  a  diary  at  all.  "Of  all  things," 
cried  she,  "a  sentimental  man  is  the  most  despic 
able." 

I  confess  I  was  somewhat  nettled.  The  thrust 
seemed  gratuitous. 

"Of  all  things,"  I  answered,  "a  woman  without 
sentiment  is  the  most  unlovely." 

"Sentiment  and  loveliness  are  all  very  well,  when 
you  have  time  for  them,"  said  Miss  Blunt.  "I 
haven't.  Pm  not  rich  enough.  Good  morning." 

Speaking  of  another  woman,  I  would  say  that  she 
flounced  out  of  the  room.  But  such  was  the  gait  of 
Juno,  when  she  moved  stiffly  over  the  grass  from 
where  Paris  stood  with  Venus  holding  the  apple, 
gathering  up  her  divine  vestment,  and  leaving  the 
others  to  guess  at  her  face 

Juno  has  just  come  back  to  say  that  she  forgot 
what  she  came  for  half  an  hour  ago.  What  will  I 
be  pleased  to  like  for  dinner? 

"I  have  just  been  writing  in  my  diary  that  you 
flounced  out  of  the  room,"  said  I. 

"Have  you,  indeed?  Now  you  can  write  that  I 
have  bounced  in.  There's  a  nice  cold  chicken  down 
stairs,"  etc.,  etc. 

August  I4th. — This  afternoon  I  sent  for  a  light 


A  Landscape  Painter 47 

wagon,  and  treated  Miss  Blunt  to  a  drive.  We  went 
successively  over  the  three  beaches.  What  a  time 
we  had,  coming  home!  I  shall  never  forget  that 
hard  trot  over  Weston's  Beach.  The  tide  was  very 
low;  and  we  had  the  whole  glittering,  weltering 
strand  to  ourselves.  There  was  a  heavy  blow  yes 
terday,  which  had  not  yet  subsided;  and  the  waves 
had  been  lashed  into  a  magnificent  fury.  Trot, 
trot,  trot,  trot,  we  trundled  over  the  hard  sand.  The 
sound  of  the  horse's  hoofs  rang  out  sharp  against 
the  monotone  of  the  thunderous  surf,  as  we  drew 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  long  line  of  the  cliffs.  At  1 
our  left,  almost  from  the  lofty  zenith  of  the  pale 
evening  sky  to  the  high  western  horizon  of  the  tu-  \ 
multuous  dark-green  sea,  was  suspended,  so  to  )  . 
speak,  one  of  those  gorgeous  vertical  sunsets  that  ** 
Turner  loved  so  well.  It  was  a^splendid  confusion 
of  purple  and  green  and  gold, — the  clouds  flying  and 
flowing  in  the  wind  like  the  folds  of  a  mighty  ban 
ner  borne  by  some  triumphal  fleet  whose  prows 
were  not  visible  above  the  long  chain  of  mountain 
ous  waves.  As  we  reached  the  point  where  the  cliffs 
plunge  down  upon  the  beach,  I  pulled  up,  and  we 
remained  for  some  moments  looking  out  along  the 
low,  brown,  obstinate  barrier  at  whose  feet  the  im 
petuous  waters  were  rolling  themselves  into  powder. 

August  ifth. — This  evening,  as  I  lighted  my  bed- 


48 A  Landscape  Painter 

room  candle,  I  saw  that  the  Captain  had  something 
to  say  to  me.  So  I  waited  below  until  the  old  man 
and  his  daughter  had  performed  their  usual  pictur 
esque  embrace,  and  the  latter  had  given  me  that 
hand-shake  and  that  smile  which  I  never  failed  to 
exact. 

"Johnson  has  got  his  discharge/'  said  the  old 
man,  when  he  had  heard  his  daughter's  door  close 
upstairs. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

He  pointed  with  his  thumb  to  the  room  above, 
where  we  heard,  through  the  thin  partition,  the 
movement  of  Miss  Blunt's  light  step. 

"You  mean  that  he  has  proposed  to  Miss  Es 
ther?" 

The  Captain  nodded. 

"And  has  been  refused?" 

"Flat." 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  I,  very  honestly.  "Did  he 
tell  you  himself?" 

"Yes,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  wanted  me  to 
speak  for  him.  I  told  him  it  was  no  use.  Then  he 
began  to  say  hard  things  of  my  poor  girl." 

"What  kind  of  things?" 

"A  pack  of  falsehoods.  He  says  she  has  no  heart. 
She  has  promised  always  to  regard  him  as  a  friend : 
it's  more  than  I  will,  hang  him !" 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  I;  and  now,  as  I  write,  I 


A  Landscape  Painter 49 

can  only  repeat,  considering  what  a  hope  was  here 
broken,  Poor  fellow! 

August  23$. — I  have  been  lounging  about  all  day, 
thinking  of  it,  dreaming  of  it,  spooning  over  it,  as 
they  say.  This  is  a  decided  waste  of  time.  I  think, 
accordingly,  the  best  thing  for  me  to  do  is,  to  sit 
down  and  lay  the  ghost  by  writing  out  my  story. 

On  Thursday  evening  Miss  Blunt  happened  to 
intimate  that  she  had  a  holiday  on  the  morrow,  it 
being  the  birthday  of  the  lady  in  whose  establish 
ment  she  teaches. 

"There  is  to  be  a  tea-party  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  for  the  resident  pupils  and  teachers,"  said 
Miss  Esther.  "Tea  at  four!  what  do  you  think  of 
that?  And  then  there  is  to  be  a  speech-making  by 
the  smartest  young  lady.  As  my  services  are  not 
required,  I  propose  to  be  absent.  Suppose,  father, 
you  take  us  out  in  your  boat.  Will  you  come,  Mr. 
Locksley?  We  shall  have  a  nice  little  picnic.  Let 
us  go  over  to  old  Fort  Pudding,  across  the  bay.  We 
will  take  our  dinner  with  us,  and  send  Dorothy  to 
spend  the  day  with  her  sister,  and  put  the  house-key 
in  our  pocket,  and  not  come  home  till  we  please." 

I  warmly  espoused  the  project,  and  it  was  accord 
ingly  carried  into  execution  the  next  morning,  when, 
at  about  ten  o'clock,  we  pushed  off  from  our  little 
wharf  at  the  garden-foot.  It  was  a  perfect  sum- 


50  A  Landscape  Painter 

mer's  day:  I  can  say  no  more  for  it.  We  made  a 
—quiet  run  over  to  the  point  of  our  destination.  I 
/  shall  never  forget  the  wondrous  stillness  which 
\  brooded  over  earth  and  water,  as  we  weighed  an- 
)  chor  in  the  lee  of  my  old  friend, — or  old  enemy, — 
^  the  ruined  fort.  The  deep,  translucent  water  re 
posed  at  the  base  of  the  warm  sunlit  cliff  like  a 
great  basin  of  glass,  which  I  half  expected  to  hear 
shiver  and  crack  as  our  keel  ploughed  through  it. 
And  how  color  and  sound  stood  out  in  the  trans 
parent  air!  How  audibly  the  little  ripples  on  the 
beach  whispered  to  the  open  sky!  How  our  irrev 
erent  voices  seemed  to  jar  upon  the  privacy  of  the 
little  cove!  The  mossy  rocks  doubled  themselves 
without  a  flaw  in  the  clear,  dark  water.  The  gleam 
ing  white  beach  lay  fringed  with  its  deep  deposits 
of  odorous  sea-weed,  gleaming  black.  The  steep, 
straggling  sides  of  the  cliffs  raised  aloft  their  rug 
ged  angles  against  the  burning  blue  of  the  sky.  I 
remember,  when  Miss  Blunt  stepped  ashore  and 
stood  upon  the  beach,  relieved  against  the  heavy 
shadow  of  a  recess  in  the  cliff,  while  her  father  and 
I  busied  ourselves  with  gathering  up  our  baskets  and 
fastening  the  anchor — I  remember,  I  say,  what  a 
figure  she  made.  There  is  a  certain  purity  in  this 
Cragthorpe  air  which  I  have  never  seen  approached, 
— a  lightness,  a  brilliancy,  a  crudity,  which  allows 
perfect  liberty  of  self-assertion  to  each  individual 
\ 


A  Landscape  Painter 51 

object  in  the  landscape.  The  prospect  is  ever  more 
or  less  like  a  picture  which  lacks  its  final  process,  its 
reduction  to  unity.  Miss  Blunt's  figure,  as  she  stood 
there  on  the  beach,  was  almost  criarde;  but  how 
lovely  it  was !  Her  light  muslin  dress,  gathered  up 
over  her  short  white  skirt,  her  little  black  mantilla, 
the  blue  veil  which  she  had  knotted  about  her  neck, 
the  crimson  shawl  which  she  had  thrown  over  her 
arm,  the  little  silken  dome  which  she  poised  over  her 
head  in  one  gloved  hand,  while  the  other  retained  her 
crisp  draperies,  and  which  cast  down  upon  her  face 
a  sharp  circle  of  shade,  out  of  which  her  cheerful 
eyes  shone  darkly  and  her  happy  mouth  smiled 
whitely, — these  are  some  of  the  hastily  noted  points 
of  the  picture. 

"Young  woman,"  I  cried  out,  over  the  water,  "I 
do  wish  you  might  know  how  pretty  you  look !" 

"How  do  you  know  I  don't?"  she  answered.  "I 
should  think  I  might.  You  don't  look  so  badly, 
yourself.  But  it's  not  I ;  it's  the  accessories." 

"Hang  it!  I  am  going  to  become  profane,"  I 
called  out  again. 

"Swear  ahead,"  said  the  Captain. 

"I  am  going  to  say  you  are  devilish  pretty." 

"Dear  me!  is  that  all?"  cried  Miss  Blunt,  with  a 
little  light  laugh,  which  must  have  made  the  tutelar 
sirens  of  the  cove  ready  to  die  with  jealousy  down 
in  their  submarine  bowers. 


52 A  Landscape  Painter 

By  the  time  the  Captain  and  I  had  landed  our 
effects,  our  companion  had  tripped  lightly  up  the 
forehead  of  the  cliff — in  one  place  it  is  very  retreat 
ing — and  disappeared  over  its  crown.  She  soon 
reappeared  with  an  intensely  white  handkerchief 
added  to  her  other  provocations,  which  she  waved 
to  us,  as  we  trudged  upward,  carrying  our  baskets. 
When  we  stopped  to  take  breath  on  the  summit,  and 
wipe  our  foreheads,  we,  of  course,  rebuked  her  who 
was  roaming  about  idly  with  her  parasol  and  gloves. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  take  any  trouble  or 
do  any  work?"  cried  Miss  Esther,  in  the  greatest 
good-humor.  "Is  not  this  my  holiday?  I  am  not 
going  to  raise  a  finger,  nor  soil  these  beautiful 
gloves,  for  which  I  paid  a  dollar  at  Mr.  Dawson's 
in  Cragthorpe.  After  you  have  found  a  shady  place 
for  your  provisions,  I  would  like  you  to  look  for  a 
spring.  I  am  very  thirsty." 

"Find  the  spring  yourself,  Miss,"  said  her  father. 
"Mr.  Locksley  and  I  have  a  spring  in  this  basket. 
Take  a  pull,  sir." 

And  the  Captain  drew  forth  a  stout  black  bottle. 

"Give  me  a  cup,  and  I  will  look  for  some  water," 
said  Miss  Blunt.  "Only  I'm  so  afraid  of  the  snakes ! 
If  you  hear  a  scream,  you  may  know  it's  a  snake." 

"Screaming  snakes !"  said  I ;  "that's  a  new  spe 


cies." 


What  nonsense  it  all  sounds  like  now!     As  we 


A  Landscape  Painter 53 

looked  about  us,  shade  seemed  scarce,  as  it  generally 
is,  in  this  region.  But  Miss  Blunt,  like  the  very 
adroit  and  practical  young  person  she  is,  for  all  that 
she  would  have  me  believe  the  contrary,  soon  dis 
covered  a  capital  cool  spring  in  the  shelter  of  a 
pleasant  little  dell,  beneath  a  clump  of  firs.  Hither, 
as  one  of  the  young  gentlemen  who  imitate  Tenny 
son  would  say,  we  brought  our  basket,  Blunt  and  I;.... 
while  Esther  dipped  the  cup,  and  held  it  dripping 
to  our  thirsty  lips,  and  laid  the  cloth,  and  on  the 
grass  disposed  the  platters  round.  I  should  have 
to  be  a  poet,  indeed,  to  describe  half  the  happiness 
and  the  silly  poetry  and  purity  and  beauty  of  this 
bright  long  summer's  day.  We  ate,  drank,  and 
talked;  we  ate  occasionally  with  our  fingers,  we 
drank  out  of  the  necks  of  our  bottles,  and  we  talked 
with  our  mouths  full,  as  befits  (and  excuses)  those 
who  talk  wild  nonsense.  We  told  stories  without 
the  least  point.  Blunt  and  I  made  atrocious  puns. 
I  believe,  indeed,  that  Miss  Blunt  herself  made  one 
little  punkin,  as  I  called  it.  If  there  had  been  any 
superfluous  representative  of  humanity  present,  to 
register  the  fact,  I  should  say  that  we  made  fools 
of  ourselves.  But  as  there  was  no  fool  on  hand,  I 
need  say  nothing  about  it.  I  am  conscious  myself 
of  having  said  several  witty  things,  which  Miss 
Blunt  understood:  in  vino  veritas.  The  dear  old 
Captain  twanged  the  long  bow  indefatigably.  The 


54 A  Landscape  Painter 

bright  high  sun  lingered  above  us  the  livelong  day, 
and  drowned  the  prospect  with  light  and  warmth. 
One  of  these  days  I  mean  to  paint  a  picture  which  in 
future  ages,  when  my  dear  native  land  shall  boast 
a  national  school  of  art,  will  hang  in  the  Salon  Carre 
of  the  great  central  museum,  (located,  let  us  say, 
in  Chicago,)  and  remind  folks — or  rather  make 
them  forget — Giorgione,  Bordone,  and  Veronese: 
A  Rural  Festival ;  three  persons  feasting  under  some 
trees;  scene,  nowhere  in  particular;  time  and  hour, 
problematical.  Female  figure,  a  big  brune;  young 
man  reclining  on  his  elbow ;  old  man  drinking.  An 
empty  sky,  with  no  end  of  expression.  The  whole 
stupendous  in  color,  drawing,  feeling.  Artist  un 
certain;  supposed  to  be  Robinson,  1900.  That's 
about  the  programme. 

After  dinner  the  Captain  began  to  look  out  across 
the  bay,  and,  noticing  the  uprising  of  a  little  breeze, 
expressed  a  wish  to  cruise  about  for  an  hour  or 
two.  He  proposed  to  us  to  walk  along  the  shore  to 
a  point  a  couple  of  miles  northward,  and  there  meet 
the  boat.  His  daughter  having  agreed  to  this  propo 
sition,  he  set  off  with  the  lightened  pannier,  and  in 
less  than  half  an  hour  we  saw  him  standing  out 
from  shore.  Miss  Blunt  and  I  did  not  begin  our 
walk  for  a  long,  long  time.  We  sat  and  talked  be 
neath  the  trees.  At  our  feet,  a  wide  cleft  in  the 
hills — almost  a  glen — stretched  down  to  the  silent 


A  Landscape  Painter 55 

beach.  Beyond  lay  the  familiar  ocean-line.  But,  as 
many  philosophers  have  observed,  there  is  an  end  to 
all  things.  At  last  we  got  up.  Miss  Blunt  said, 
that,  as  the  air  was  freshening,  she  believed  she 
would  put  on  her  shawl.  I  helped  her  to  fold  it  into 
the  proper  shape,  and  then  I  placed  it  on  her  shoul 
ders,  her  crimson  shawl  over  her  black  silk  sack. 
And  then  she  tied  her  veil  once  more  about  her  neck, 
and  gave  me  her  hat  to  hold,  while  she  effected  a 
partial  redistribution  of  her  hair-pins.  By  way  of 
being  humorous,  I  placed  her  hat  on  my  own  head ; 
at  which  she  was  kind  enough  to  smile,  as  with 
downcast  face  and  uplifted  elbows  she  fumbled 
among  her  braids.  And  then  she  shook  out  the 
creases  of  her  dress,  and  drew  on  her  gloves;  and 
finally  she  said,  "Well !" — that  inevitable  tribute  to 
time  and  morality  which  follows  upon  even  the  mild 
est  form  of  dissipation.  Very  slowly  it  was  that 
we  wandered  down  the  little  glen.  Slowly,  too,  we 
followed  the  course  of  the  narrow  and  sinuous 
beach,  as  it  keeps  to  the  foot  of  the  low  cliffs.  We 
encountered  no  sign  of  human  interest.  Our  con 
versation  I  need  hardly  repeat.  I  think  I  may  trust 
it  to  the  keeping  of  my  memory ;  I  think  I  shall  be 
likely  to  remember  it.  It  was  all  very  sober  and 
sensible, — such  talk  as  it  is  both  easy  and  pleasant 
to  remember;  it  was  even  prosaic, — or,  at  least,  if 
there  was  a  vein  of  poetry  in  it,  I  should  have  defied 


56 A  Landscape  Painter 

a  listener  to  put  his  finger  on  it.  There  was  no  ex 
altation  of  feeling  or  utterance  on  either  side;  on 
one  side,  indeed,  there  was  very  little  utterance.  Am 
I  wrong  in  conjecturing,  however,  that  there  was 
considerable  feeling  of  a  certain  quiet  kind?  Miss 
Blunt  maintained  a  rich,  golden  silence.  I,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  very  voluble.  What  a  sweet,  wom 
anly  listener  she  is! 

September  ist. — I  have  been  working  steadily  for 
a  week.  This  is  the  first  day  of  autumn.  Read 
aloud  to  Miss  Blunt  a  little  Wordsworth. 

September  loth.  Midnight. — Worked  without 
interruption, — until  yesterday,  inclusive,  that  is. 
But  with  the  day  now  closing — or  opening — begins 
a  new  era.  My  poor  vapid  old  diary,  at  last  you 
shall  hold  a  fact. 

For  three  days  past  we  have  been  having  damp, 
chilly  weather.  Dusk  has  fallen  early.  This  even 
ing,  after  tea,  the  Captain  went  into  town, — on  busi 
ness,  as  he  said :  I  believe,  to  attend  some  Poor- 
house  or  Hospital  Board.  Esther  and  I  went  into 
the  parlor.  The  room  seemed  cold.  She  brought 
in  the  lamp  from  the  dining-room,  and  proposed  we 
should  have  a  little  fire.  I  went  into  the  kitchen, 
procured  an  armful  of  wood,  and  while  she  drew 
the  curtains  and  wheeled  up  the  table,  I  kindled  a 


A  Landscape  Painter 57 

lively,  crackling  blaze.  A  fortnight  ago  she  would 
not  have  allowed  me  to  do  this  without  a  protest. 
She  would  not  have  offered  to  do  it  herself, — not 
she! — but  she  would  have  said  that  I  was  not  here 
to  serve,  but  to  be  served,  and  would  have  pretended 
to  call  Dorothy.  Of  course  I  should  have  had  my 
own  way.  But  we  have  changed  all  that.  Esther 
went  to  her  piano,  and  I  sat  down  to  a  book.  I 
read  not  a  word.  I  sat  looking  at  my  mistress,  and 
thinking  with  a  very  uneasy  heart.  For  the  first 
time  in  our  friendship,  she  had  put  on  a  dark,  warm 
dress:  I  think  it  was  of  the  material  called  alpaca. 
The  first  time  I  saw  her  she  wore  a  white  dress  with 
a  purple  neck-ribbon;  now  she  wore  a  black  dress 
with  the  same  ribbon.  That  is,  I  remember 
wondering,  as  I  sat  there  eyeing  her,  whether  it 
was  the  same  ribbon,  or  merely  another  like  it.  My 
heart  was  in  my  throat;  and  yet  I  thought  of 
a  number  of  trivialities  of  the  same  kind.  At  last  I 
spoke. 

"Miss  Blunt,"  I  said,  "do  you  remember  the  first 
evening  I  passed  beneath  your  roof,  last  June?" 

"Perfectly,"  she  replied,  without  stopping. 

"You  played  this  same  piece." 

"Yes;  I  played  it  very  badly,  too.  I  only  half 
knew  it.  But  it  is  a  showy  piece,  and  I  wished  to 
produce  an  effect.  I  didn't  know  then  how  indiffer 
ent  you  are  to  music." 


58 A  Landscape  Painter 

"I  paid  no  particular  attention  to  the  piece.  I 
was  intent  upon  the  performer." 

"So  the  performer  supposed." 

"What  reason  had  you  to  suppose  so?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Did  you  ever  know  a 
woman  to  be  able  to  give  a  reason,  when  she  has 
guessed  aright?" 

"I  think  they  generally  contrive  to  make  up  a 
reason,  afterwards.  Come,  what  was  yours?" 

"Well,  you  stared  so  hard." 

"Fie !    I  don't  believe  it.    That's  unkind." 

"You  said  you  wished  me  to  invent  a  reason.  If 
I  really  had  one,  I  don't  remember  it." 

"You  told  me  you  remembered  the  occasion  in 
question  perfectly." 

"I  meant  the  circumstances.  I  remember  what 
we  had  for  tea ;  I  remember  what  dress  I  wore.  But 
I  don't  remember  my  feelings.  They  were  naturally 
not  very  memorable." 

"What  did  you  say,  when  your  father  proposed 
my  coming?" 

"I  asked  how  much  you  would  be  willing  to  pay." 

"And  then?" 

"And  then,  if  you  looked  'respectable'." 

"And  then?" 

"That  was  all.  I  told  father  that  he  could  do 
as  he  pleased." 

She  continued  to  play.    Leaning  back  in  my  chair, 


A  Landscape  Painter 59 

I  continued  to  look  at  her.  There  was  a  consider 
able  pause. 

"Miss  Esther,"  said  I,  at  last. 

"Yes." 

"Excuse  me  for  interrupting  you  so  often.  But," 
— and  I  got  up  and  went  to  the  piano, — "but  I 
thank  Heaven  that  it  has  brought  you  and  me 
together." 

She  looked  up  at  me  and  bowed  her  head  with  a 
little  smile,  as  her  hands  still  wandered  over  the 
keys. 

"Heaven  has  certainly  been  very  good  to  us," 
said  she. 

"How  much  longer  are  you  going  to  play?"  I 
asked. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.     As  long  as  you  like." 

"If  you  want  to  do  as  I  like,  you  will  stop 
immediately." 

She  let  her  hands  rest  on  the  keys  a  moment, 
and  gave  me  a  rapid,  questioning  look.  Whether 
she  found  a  sufficient  answer  in  my  face  I  know 
not;  but  she  slowly  rose,  and,  with  a  very  pretty 
affectation  of  obedience,  began  to  close  the  instru 
ment.  I  helped  her  to  do  so. 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  to  be  quite  alone,"  she 
said.  "I  suppose  your  own  room  is  too  cold." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "you've  hit  it  exactly.  I 
wish  to  be  alone.  I  wish  to  monopolize  this  cheer- 


60 A  Landscape  Painter 

ful  blaze.  Hadn't  you  better  go  into  the  kitchen 
and  sit  with  the  cook?  It  takes  you  women  to 
make  such  cruel  speeches." 

"When  we  women  are  cruel,  Mr.  Locksley,  it  is 
without  knowing  it.  We  are  not  wilfully  so.  When 
we  learn  that  we  have  been  unkind,  we  very  humbly 
ask  pardon,  without  even  knowing  what  our  crime 
has  been."  And  she  made  me  a  very  low  curtsy. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  your  crime  has  been,"  said 
I.  "Come  and  sit  by  the  fire.  It's  rather  a  long 
story." 

"A  long  story  ?    Then  let  me  get  my  work." 

"Confound  your  work!  Excuse  me,  but  I  mean 
it.  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me.  Believe  me,  you 
will  need  all  your  thoughts." 

She  looked  at  me  steadily  a  moment,  and  I  re 
turned  her  glance.  During  that  moment  I  was  re 
flecting  whether  I  might  silently  emphasize  my 
request  by  laying  a  lover's  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 
I  decided  that  I  might  not.  She  walked  over  and 
quietly  seated  herself  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fire. 
Here  she  patiently  folded  her  arms.  I  sat  down 
before  her. 

"With  you,  Miss  Blunt,"  said  I,  "one  must  be 
very  explicit.  You  are  not  in  the  habit  of  taking* 
things  for  granted.  You  have  a  great  deal  of 
imagination,  but  you  rarely  exercise  it  on  the  be 
half  of  other  people."  I  stopped  a  moment. 


A  Landscape  Painter  61 

"Is  that  my  crime?"  asked  my  companion. 

"It's  not  so  much  a  crime  as  a  vice,"  said  I; 
"and  perhaps  not  so  much  a  vice  as  a  virtue.  Your 
crime  is,  that  you  are  so  stone-cold  to  a  poor  devil 
who  loves  you." 

She  burst  into  a  rather  shrill  laugh.  I  wonder 
whether  she  thought  I  meant  Johnson. 

"Who  are  you  speaking  for,  Mr.  Locksley?"  she 
asked. 

"Are  there  so  many?    For  myself." 

"Honestly?" 

"Honestly  doesn't  begin  to  express  it." 

"What  is  that  French  phrase  that  you  are  for 
ever  using?  I  think  I  may  say,  'Allans,  done!'" 

"Let  us  speak  plain  English,  Miss  Blunt." 

"  'Stone-cold'  is  certainly  very  plain  English.  I 
don't  see  the  relative  importance  of  the  two  branches 
of  your  proposition.  Which  is  the  principal,  and 
which  the  subordinate  clause, — that  I  am  stone- 
cold,  as  you  call  it,  or  that  you  love  me,  as  you 
call  it?" 

"As  I  call  it?  What  would  you  have  me  call 
it?  For  God's  sake,  Miss  Blunt,  be  serious,  or  I 
shall  call  it  something  else.  Yes,  I  love  you.  Don't 
you  believe  it?" 

"I  am  open  to  conviction." 

"Thank  God !"  said  I. 

And  I  attempted  to  take  her  hand. 


62  A  Landscape  Painter 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Locksley,"  said  she, — "not  just  yet; 
if  you  please." 

"Action  speaks  louder  than  words,"  said  I. 

"There  is  no  need  of  speaking  loud.  I  hear  you 
perfectly." 

"I  certainly  sha'n't  whisper,"  said  I;  "although 
it  is  the  custom,  I  believe,  for  lovers  to  do  so.  Will 
you  be  my  wife?" 

"I  sha'n't  whisper,  either,  Mr.  Locksley.  Yes, 
I  will." 

And  now  she  put  out  her  hand. — That's  my 
fact. 

September  I2th. — We  are  to  be  married  within 
three  weeks. 

September  ipth. — I  have  been  in  New  York  a 
week,  transacting  business.  I  got  back  yesterday. 
I  find  every  one  here  talking  about  our  engage 
ment.  Esther  tells  me  that  it  was  talked  about  a 
month  ago,  and  that  there  is  a  very  general  feeling 
of  disappointment  that  I  am  not  rich. 

"Really,  if  you  don't  mind  it,"  said  I,  "I  don't 
see  why  others  should." 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  are  rich  or  not,"  says 
Esther;  "but  I  know  that  I  am." 

"Indeed !  I  was  not  aware  that  you  had  a  private 
fortune,"  etc.,  etc. 


A  Landscape  Painter 63 

This  little  farce  is  repeated  in  some  shape  every 
day.  I  am  very  idle.  I  smoke  a  great  deal,  and 
lounge  about  all  day,  with  my  hands  in  my  pockets. 
I  am  free  from  that  ineffable  weariness  of  ceaseless 
giving  which  I  experienced  six  months  ago.  I  was 
shorn  of  my  hereditary  trinkets  at  that  period ;  and  I 
have  resolved  that  this  engagement,  at  all  events, 
shall  have  no  connection  with  the  shops.  I  was 
balked  of  my  poetry  once;  I  sha'n't  be  a  second 
time.  I  don't  think  there  is  much  danger  of  this. 
Esther  deals  it  out  with  full  hands.  She  takes  a 
very  pretty  interest  in  her  simple  outfit, — showing 
me  triumphantly  certain  of  her  purchases,  and  mak 
ing  a  great  mystery  about  others,  which  she  is 
pleased  to  denominate  table-cloths  and  napkins. 
Last  evening  I  found  her  sewing  buttons  on  a  table 
cloth.  I  had  heard  a  great  deal  of  a  certain  gray 
silk  dress;  and  this  morning,  accordingly,  she 
marched  up  to  me,  arrayed  in  this  garment.  It  is 
trimmed  with  velvet,  and  hath  flounces,  a  train, 
and  all  the  modern  improvements  generally. 

"There  is  only  one  objection  to  it,"  said  Esther, 
parading  before  the  glass  in  my  painting-room : 
"I  am  afraid  it  is  above  our  station." 

"By  Jove !  I'll  paint  your  portrait  in  it,"  said  I, 
"and  make  our  fortune.  All  the  other  men  who 
have  handsome  wives  will  bring  them  to  be 
painted." 


64 A  Landscape  Painter 

"You  mean  all  the  women  who  have  handsome 
dresses,"  said  Esther,  with  great  humility. 

Our  wedding  is  fixed  for  next  Thursday.  I 
tell  Esther  that  it  will  be  as  little  of  a  wedding, 
and  as  much  of  a  marriage,  as  possible.  Her  father 
and  her  good  friend  the  schoolmistress  alone  are  to 
be  present. — My  secret  oppresses  me  considerably; 
but  I  have  resolved  to  keep  it  for  the  honeymoon, 
when  it  may  take  care  of  itself.  I  am  harassed  with 
a  dismal  apprehension,  that,  if  Esther  were  to  dis 
cover  it  now,  the  whole  thing  would  be  a  refaire. 
I  have  taken  rooms  at  a  romantic  little  watering- 
place  called  Clifton,  ten  miles  off.  The  hotel  is 
already  quite  free  of  city-people,  and  we  shall  be 
almost  alone. 

September  28th. — We  have  been  here  two  days. 
The  little  transaction  in  the  church  went  off 
smoothly.  I  am  truly  sorry  for  the  Captain.  We 
drove  directly  over  here,  and  reached  the  place  at 
dusk.  It  was  a  raw,  black  day.  We  have  a  couple 
of  good  rooms,  close  to  the  savage  sea.  I  am 
nevertheless  afraid  I  have  made  a  mistake.  It 
would  perhaps  have  been  wiser  to  go  inland.  These 
things  are  not  immaterial :  we  make  our  own 
heaven,  but  we  scarcely  make  our  own  earth.  I  am 
writing  at  a  little  table  by  the  window,  looking  out 
on  the  rocks,  the  gathering  dusk,  and  the  rising 


A  Landscape  Painter 65 

fog.  My  wife  has  wandered  down  to  the  rocky 
platform  in  front  of  the  house.  I  can  see  her  from 
here,  bareheaded,  in  that  old  crimson  shawl,  talking 
to  one  of  the  landlord's  little  boys.  She  has  just 
given  the  little  fellow  a  kiss,  bless  her  heart!  I 
remember  her  telling  me  once  that  she  was  very 
fond  of  little  boys ;  and,  indeed,  I  have  noticed 
that  they  are  seldom  too  dirty  for  her  to  take  on 
her  knee.  I  have  been  reading  over  these  pages  for 
the  first  time  in — I  don't  know  when.  They  are 
filled  with  her, — even  more  in  thought  than  in  word. 
I  believe  I  will  show  them  to  her,  when  she  comes 
in.  I  will  give  her  the  book  to  read,  and  sit  by  her, 
watching  her  face, — watching  the  great  secret  dawn 
upon  her. 

Later. — Somehow  or  other,  I  can  write  this 
quietly  enough ;  but  I  hardly  think  I  shall  ever  write 
any  more.  When  Esther  came  in,  I  handed  her  this 
book. 

"I  want  you  to  read  it,"  said  I. 

She  turned  very  pale,  and  laid  it  on  the  table, 
shaking  her  head. 

"I  know  it,"  she  said. 

"What  do  you  know?" 

"That  you  have  a  hundred  thousand  a  year.  But, 
believe  me,  Mr.  Locksley,  I  am  none  the  worse  for 
the  knowledge.  You  intimated  in  one  place  in  your 


66 A  Landscape  Painter 

book  that  I  am  born  for  wealth  and  splendor.  I 
believe  I  am.  You  pretend  to  hate  your  money; 
but  you  would  not  have  had  me  without  it.  If 
you  really  love  me, — and  I  think  you  do, — you  will 
not  let  this  make  any  difference.  I  am  not  such  a 
fool  as  to  attempt  to  talk  here  about  my  sensations. 
But  I  remember  what  I  said." 

"What  do  you  expect  me  to  do?"  I  asked.  "Shall 
I  call  you  some  horrible  name  and  cast  you  off?" 

"I  expect  you  to  show  the  same  courage  that  I 
am  showing.  I  never  said  I  loved  you.  I  never 
deceived  you  in  that.  I  said  I  would  be  your  wife. 
So  I  will,  faithfully.  I  haven't  so  much  heart  as 
you  think;  and  yet,  too,  I  have  a  great  deal  more. 
I  am  incapable  of  more  than  one  deception. — 
Mercy!  didn't  you  see  it?  didn't  you  know  it?  see 
that  I  saw  it  ?  know  that  I  knew  it  ?  It  was  diamond 
cut  diamond.  You  deceived  me;  I  deceived  you. 
Now  that  your  deception  ceases,  mine  ceases.  Now 
we  are  free,  with  our  hundred  thousand  a  year! 
Excuse  me,  but  it  sometimes  comes  across  me! 
Now  we  can  be  good  and  honest  and  true.  It  was 
all  a  make-believe  virtue  before." 

"So  you  read  that  thing?"  I  asked:  actually — 
strange  as  it  may  seem — for  something  to  say. 

"Yes,  while  you  were  ill.  It  was  lying  with  your 
pen  in  it,  on  the  table.  I  read  it  because  I  suspected. 
Otherwise  I  shouldn't  have  done  so." 


A  Landscape  Painter 67 

"It  was  the  act  of  a  false  woman,"  said  I. 

"A  false  woman?  No, — simply  of  a  woman.  I 
am  a  woman,  sir."  And  she  began  to  smile. 
"Come,  you  be  a  man!" 


II 

POOR  RICHARD 
A  STORY  IN  THREE  PARTS 


PART   I 

Miss  WHITTAKER'S  garden  covered  a  couple  of 
acres,  behind  and  beside  her  house,  and  at  its  farther 
extremity  was  bounded  by  a  narrow  meadow,  which 
in  turn  was  bordered  by  the  old,  disused  towing- 
path  beside  the  river,  at  this  point  a  slow  and  shallow 
stream.  Its  low,  flat  banks  were  unadorned  with 
rocks  or  trees,  and  a  towing-path  is  not  in  itself  a 
romantic  promenade.  Nevertheless,  here  sauntered 
bareheaded,  on  a  certain  spring  evening,  the  mistress 
of  the  acres  just  mentioned  and  many  more  beside, 
in  sentimental  converse  with  an  impassioned  and 
beautiful  youth. 

She  herself  had  been  positively  plain,  but  for  the 
frequent  recurrence  of  a  magnificent  broad  smile, — 
which  imparted  loveliness  to  her  somewhat  plebeian 
features, — and  (in  another  degree)  for  the  elegance 
of  her  dress,  which  expressed  one  of  the  later  stages 
of  mourning,  and  was  of  that  voluminous  abundance 


72  A  Landscape  Painter 

proper  to  women  who  are  massive  in  person,  and 
rich  besides.    Her  companion's  good  looks,  for  very 
good  they  were,  in  spite  of  several  defects,  were  set 
off  by  a  shabby  suit,  as  carelessly  worn  as  it  was  in- 
artistically  cut.      His  manner,   as  he  walked  and 
talked,    was   that   of   a   nervous,   passionate   man, 
wrought  almost  to  desperation;  while  her  own  was 
that  of  a  person  self-composed  to  generous  atten 
tion.     A  brief  silence,  however,  had  at  last  fallen 
upon  them.     Miss  Whittaker  strolled  along  quietly, 
looking  at  the  slow-mounting  moon,  and  the  young 
man  gazed  on  the  ground,  swinging  his  stick.     Fi 
nally,  with  a  heavy  blow,  he  brought  it  to  earth. 
"O  Gertrude !"  he  cried,  "I  despise  myself." 
"That's  very  foolish,"  said  Gertrude. 
"And,  Gertrude,  I  adore  you." 
"That's  more  foolish  still,"  said  Gertrude,  with 
her  eyes  still  on  the  moon.    And  then,  suddenly  and 
somewhat  impatiently  transferring  them  to  her  com 
panion's  face,  "Richard,"  she  asked,  "what  do  you 
mean  when  you  say  you  adore  me?" 
"Mean?    I  mean  that  I  love  you." 
"Then,  why  don't  you  say  what  you  mean?" 
The  young  man  looked  at  her  a  moment.    "Will 
you  give  me  leave,"  he  asked,  "to  say  all  that  I 
mean  ?" 

"Of  course."     Then,  as  he  remained  silent,  "I 
listen,"  added  Gertrude. 


Poor  Richard  73 


Yet  he  still  said  nothing,  but  went  striking  ve 
hemently  at  the  weeds  by  the  water's  edge,  like  one 
who  may  easily  burst  into  tears  of  rage. 

"Gertrude!"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  "what  more 
do  you  want  than  the  assurance  that  I  love  you?" 

"I  want  nothing  more.  That  assurance  is  by  it 
self  delightful  enough.  You  yourself  seemed  to 
wish  to  add  something  more." 

"Either  you  won't  understand  me,"  cried  Rich 
ard,  "or" — flagrantly  vicious  for  twenty  seconds — 
"you  can't!" 

Miss  Whittaker  stopped  and  looked  thoughtfully 
into  his  face.  "In  our  position,"  she  said,  "if  it 
becomes  you  to  sacrifice  reflection  to  feeling,  it  be 
comes  me  to  do  the  reverse.  Listen  to  me,  Richard. 
I  do  understand  you,  and  better,  I  fancy,  than  you 
understand  yourself." 

"O,  of  course!" 

But  she  continued,  heedless  of  his  interruption. 
"I  thought  that,  by  leaving  you  to  yourself  awhile, 
your  feelings  might  become  clearer  to  you.  But 
they  seem  to  be  growing  only  more  confused.  I 
have  been  so  fortunate,  or  so  unfortunate,  I  hardly 
know  which," — and  she  smiled  faintly, — "as  to 
please  you.  That's  all  very  well,  but  you  must  not 
make  too  much  of  it.  Nothing  can  make  me  hap 
pier  than  to  please  you,  or  to  please  any  one.  But 
here  it  must  stop  with  you,  as  it  stops  with  others." 


74 A  Landscape  Painter 

"It  does  not  stop  here  with  others." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  You  have  no  right  to  say 
that.  It  is  partly  out  of  justice  to  others  that  I 
speak  to  you  as  I  am  doing.  I  shall  always  be  one 
of  your  best  friends,  but  I  shall  never  be  more.  It 
is  best  I  should  tell  you  this  at  once.  I  might  trifle 
with  you  awhile  and  make  you  happy  (since  upon 
such  a  thing  you  are  tempted  to  set  your  happiness) 
by  allowing  you  to  suppose  that  I  had  given  you  my 
heart ;  but  the  end  would  soon  come,  and  then  where 
should  we  be?  You  may  in  your  disappointment 
call  me  heartless  now, — I  freely  give  you  leave  to 
call  me  anything  that  may  ease  your  mind, — but 
what  would  you  call  me  then?  Friendship,  Richard, 
is  a  heavenly  cure  for  love.  Here  is  mine,"  and  she 
held  out  her  hand. 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  said  Richard,  gloomily  fold 
ing  his  arms.  "I  know  my  own  feelings,"  and  he 
raised  his  voice.  "Haven't  I  lived  with  them  night 
and  day  for  weeks  and  weeks  ?  Great  Heaven,  Ger 
trude,  this  is  no  fancy.  I'm  not  of  that  sort.  My 
whole  life  has  gone  into  my  love.  God  has  let  me 
idle  it  away  hitherto,  only  that  I  might  begin  it  with 
you.  Dear  Gertrude,  hear  me.  I  have  the  heart  of 
a  man.  I  know  I'm  not  respectable,  but  I  devoutly 
believe  I'm  lovable.  It's  true  that  I've  neither 
worked,  nor  thought,  nor  studied,  nor  turned  a 
penny.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  I've  never  cared  for 


Poor  Richard  75 


a  woman  before.  I've  waited  for  you.  And  now — 
now,  after  all,  I'm  to  sit  down  and  be  pleased!  The 
Devil !  Please  other  men,  madam !  Me- you  delight, 
you  intoxicate." 

An  honest  flush  rose  to  Gertrude's  cheek.  "So 
much  the  worse  for  you!"  she  cried  with  a  bitter 
laugh.  "So  much  the  worse  for  both  of  us!  But 
what  is  your  point?  Do  you  wish  to  marry  me?" 

Richard  flinched  a  moment  under  this  tacit  propo 
sition  suddenly  grown  vocal ;  but  not  from  want  of 
heart.  "Of  course  I  do,"  he  said. 

"Well,  then,  I  only  pity  you  the  more  for  your 
consistency.  I  can  only  entreat  you  again  to  rest 
contented  with  my  friendship.  It's  not  such  a  bad 
substitute,  Richard,  as  I  understand  it.  What  my 
love  might  be  I  don't  know, — I  couldn't  answer  for 
that ;  but  of  my  friendship  I'm  sure.  We  both  have 
our  duties  in  this  matter,  and  I  have  resolved  to  take 
a  liberal  view  of  mine.  I  might  lose  patience  with 
you,  you  know,  and  dismiss  you, — leave  you  alone 
with  your  dreams,  and  let  you  break  your  heart. 
But  it's  rather  by  seeing  more  of  me  than  by  seeing 
less,  that  your  feelings  will  change." 

"Indeed!    And  yours?" 

"I  have  no  doubt  they  will  change,  too;  not  in 
kind,  but  in  degree.  The  better  I  know  you,  I  am 
sure,  the  better  I  shall  like  you.  The  better,  too, 
you  will  like  me.  Don't  turn  your  back  upon  me. 


76 A  Landscape  Painter 

I  speak  the  truth.  You  will  get  to  entertain  a  seri 
ous  opinion  of  me, — which  I'm  sure  you  haven't 
now,  or  you  wouldn't  talk  of  my  intoxicating  you. 
But  you  must  be  patient.  It's  a  singular  fact  that 
it  takes  longer  to  like  a  woman  than  to  love  her.  A 
sense  of  intoxication  is  a  very  poor  feeling  to  marry 
upon.  You  wish,  of  course,  to  break  with  your  idle 
ness,  and  your  bad  habits, — you  see  I  am  so  thor 
oughly  your  friend  that  I'm  not  afraid  of  touching 
upon  disagreeable  facts,  as  I  should  be  if  I  were  your 
mistress.  But  you  are  so  indolent,  so  irresolute,  so 
undisciplined,  so  uneducated," — Gertrude  spoke  de 
liberately,  and  watched  the  effect  of  her  words, — 
"that  you  find  a  change  of  life  very  difficult.  I  pro 
pose,  with  your  consent,  to  appoint  myself  your 
counsellor.  Henceforth  my  house  will  be  open  to 
you  as  to  my  dearest  friend.  Come  as  often  and 
stay  as  long  as  you  please.  Not  in  a  few  weeks,  per 
haps,  nor  even  in  a  few  months,  but  in  God's  good 
time,  you  will  be  a  noble  young  man  in  working 
order, — which  I  don't  consider  you  now,  and  which 
I  know  you  don't  consider  yourself.  But  I  have  a 
great  opinion  of  your  talents,"  (this  was  very 
shrewd  of  Gertrude,)  "and  of  your  heart.  If  I 
turn  out  to  have  done  you  a  service,  you'll  not  want 
to  marry  me  then." 

Richard  had  silently  listened,  with  a  deepening 
frown.    "That's  all  very  pretty,"  he  said ;  "but" — 


Poor  Richard  77 


and  the  reader  will  see  that,  in  his  earnestness,  he 
was  inclined  to  dispense  with  courtesy — "it's  rotten, 
— rotten  from  beginning  to  end.  What's  the  mean 
ing  of  all  that  rigmarole  about  the  inconsistency  of 
friendship  and  love?  Such  talk  is  enough  to  drive 
one  mad.  Refuse  me  outright,  and  send  me  to  the 
Devil  if  you  must;  but  don't  bemuddle  your  own 
brains  at  the  same  time.  But  one  little  word  knocks 
it  all  to  pieces :  I  want  you  for  my  wife.  You  make 
an  awful  mistake  in  treating  me  as  a  boy, — an  awful 
mistake.  I  am  in  working  order.  I  have  begun  life 
in  loving  you.  I  have  broken  with  drinking  as  ef 
fectually  as  if  I  hadn't  touched  a  drop  of  liquor  for 
twenty  years.  I  hate  it,  I  loathe  it.  I've  drunk 
my  last.  No,  Gertrude,  I'm  no  longer  a  boy, — 
you've  cured  me  of  that.  Hang  it,  that's  why  I  love 
you!  Don't  you  see?  Ah,  Gertrude!" — and  his 
voice  fell, — "you're  a  great  enchantress !  You  have 
no  arts,  you  have  no  beauty  even,  (can't  a  lover 
deal  with  facts  now?),  but  you  are  an  enchantress 
without  them.  It's  your  nature.  You  are  so  di 
vinely,  damnably  honest !  That  excellent  speech  just 
now  was  meant  to  smother  my  passion;  but  it  has 
only  inflamed  it.  You  will  say  it  was  nothing  but 
common  sense.  Very  likely;  but  that  is  the  very 
point.  Your  common  sense  captivates  me.  It's  for 
that  that  I  love  you." 

He  spoke  with  so  relentless  a  calmness  that  Ger- 


78 A  Landscape  Painter 

trude  was  sickened.  Here  she  found  herself  weaker 
than  he,  while  the  happiness  of  both  of  them  de 
manded  that  she  should  be  stronger. 

"Richard  Clare,"  she  said,  "you  are  unkind!" 
There  was  a  tremor  in  her  voice  as  she  spoke;  and 
as  she  ceased  speaking,  she  burst  into  tears.  A  self 
ish  sense  of  victory  invaded  the  young  man's  breast. 
He  threw  his  arm  about  her;  but  she  shook  it  off. 
"You  are  a  coward,  sir!"  she  cried. 

"Oho !"  said  Richard,  flushing  angrily. 

"You  go  too  far;  you  persist  beyond  decency." 

"You  hate  me  now,  I  suppose,"  said  Richard, 
brutally,  like  one  at  bay. 

Gertrude  brushed  away  her  tears.  "No,  indeed," 
she  answered,  sending  him  a  dry,  clear  glance.  "To 
hate  you,  I  should  have  to  have  loved  you.  I  pity 
you  still." 

Richard  looked  at  her  a  moment.  "I  don't  feel 
tempted  to  return  the  feeling,  Gertrude,"  said  he. 
"A  woman  with  so  much  head  as  you  needs  no 
pity." 

"I  have  not  head  enough  to  read  your  sarcasm, 
sir;  but  I  have  heart  enough  to  excuse  it,  and  I 
mean  to  keep  a  good  heart  to  the  end.  I  mean  to 
keep  my  temper,  I  mean  to  be  just,  I  mean  to  be 
conclusive,  and  not  to  have  to  return  to  this  matter. 
It's  not  for  my  pleasure,  I  would  have  you  know, 
that  I  am  so  explicit.  I  have  nerves  as  well  as  you. 


Poor  Richard  79 


Listen,  then.  If  I  don't  love  you,  Richard,  in  your 
way,  I  don't;  and  if  I  can't,  I  can't.  We  can't  love 
by  will.  But  with  friendship,  when  it  is  once  estab 
lished,  I  believe  the  will  and  the  reason  may  have 
a  great  deal  to  do.  I  will,  therefore,  put  the  whole 
of  my  mind  into  my  friendship  for  you,  and  in  that 
way  we  shall  perhaps  be  even.  Such  a  feeling — as 
I  shall  naturally  show  it — will,  after  all,  not  be  very 
different  from  that  other  feeling  you  ask — as  I 
should  naturally  show  it.  Bravely  to  reconcile  him 
self  to  such  difference  as  there  is,  is  no  more  than 
a  man  of  honor  ought  to  do.  Do  you  understand 
me?" 

"You  have  an  admirable  way  of  putting  things. 
'After  all,'  and  'such  difference  as  there  is'!  The 
difference  is  the  difference  of  marriage  and  no-mar 
riage.  I  suppose  you  don't  mean  that  you  are  will 
ing  to  live  with  me  without  that  ceremony?" 

"You  suppose  correctly." 

"Then  why  do  you  falsify  matters?  A  woman  is 
either  a  man's  wife,  or  she  isn't." 

"Yes;  and  a  woman  is  either  a  man's  friend,  or 
she  isn't." 

"And  you  are  mine,  and  I'm  an  ungrateful  brute 
not  to  rest  satisfied!  That's  what  you  mean. 
Heaven  knows  you're  right," — and  he  paused  a  mo 
ment,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  "Don't  despise 
me,  Gertrude,"  he  resumed.  "I'm  not  so  ungrate- 


80 A  Landscape  Painter 

ful  as  I  seem.  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  for 
the  pains  you  have  taken.  Of  course,  I  understand 
your  not  loving  me.  You'd  be  a  grand  fool  if  you 
did;  and  you're  no  fool,  Gertrude." 

"No,  I'm  no  fool,  Richard.  It's  a  great  respon 
sibility, — it's  dreadfully  vulgar;  but,  on  the  whole, 
I'm  rather  glad." 

"So  am  I.  I  could  hate  you  for  it ;  but  there  is  no 
doubt  it's  why  I  love  you.  If  you  were  a  fool,  you 
might  love  me;  but  I  shouldn't  love  you,  and  if  I 
must  choose,  I  prefer  that." 

"Heaven  has  chosen  for  us.  Ah,  Richard,"  pur 
sued  Gertrude,  with  admirable  simplicity,  "let  us  be 
good  and  obey  Heaven,  and  we  shall  be  sure  to  be 
happy," — and  she  held  out  her  hand  once  more. 

Richard  took  it  and  raised  it  to  his  lips.  She  felt 
their  pressure  and  withdrew  it. 

"Now  you  must  leave  me,"  she  said.  "Did  you 
ride?" 

"My  horse  is  at  the  village." 

"You  can  go  by  the  river,  then.    Good  night." 

"Good  night." 

The  young  man  moved  away  in  the  gathering 
dusk,  and  Miss  Whittaker  stood  for  a  moment  look 
ing  after  him. 

To  appreciate  the  importance  of  this  conversation, 
the  reader  must  know  that  Miss  Gertrude  Whitta 
ker  was  a  young  woman  of  four-and-twenty,  whose 


Poor  Richard  81 


father,  recently  deceased,  had  left  her  alone  in  the 
world,  with  a  great  fortune,  accumulated  by  various 
enterprises  in  that  part  of  the  State.  He  had  ap 
pointed  a  distant  and  elderly  kinswoman,  by  name 
Miss  Pendexter,  as  his  daughter's  household  com 
panion;  and  an  old  friend  of  his  own,  known  to 
combine  shrewdness  with  integrity,  as  her  financial 
adviser.  Motherless,  country-bred,  and  homely- 
featured,  Gertrude,  on  arriving  at  maturity,  had 
neither  the  tastes  nor  the  manners  of  a  fine  lady. 
Of  a  robust  and  active  make,  with  a  warm  heart,  a 
cool  head,  and  a  very  pretty  talent  for  affairs,  she 
was,  in  virtue  both  of  her  wealth  and  of  her  tact, 
one  of  the  chief  figures  of  the  neighborhood.  These 
facts  had  forced  her  into  a  prominence  which  she 
made  no  attempt  to  elude,  and  in  which  she  now  felt 
thoroughly  at  home.  She  knew  herself  to  be  a 
power  in  the  land;  she  knew  that,  present  and  ab 
sent,  she  was  continually  talked  about  as  the  rich 
Miss  Whittaker;  and  although  as  modest  as  a  wo 
man  need  be,  she  was  neither  so  timid  nor  so  nervous 
as  to  wish  to  compromise  with  her  inevitable  distinc 
tions.  Her  feelings  were,  indeed,  throughout, 
strong,  rather  than  delicate ;  and  yet  there  was  in  her 
whole  nature,  as  the  world  had  learned  to  look  at  it, 
a  moderation,  a  temperance,  a  benevolence,  an  or 
derly  freedom,  which  bespoke  universal  respect. 
She  was  impulsive,  and  yet  discreet;  economical, 


82  A  Landscape  Painter 

and  yet  generous ;  humorous,  and  yet  serious ;  keenly 
discerning  of  human  distinctions,  and  yet  almost  in 
discriminately  hospitable ;  with  a  prodigious  fund  of 
common  sense  beneath  all;  and  yet  beyond  this, — 
like  the  priest  behind  the  king, — and  despite  her 
broadly  prosaic,  and  as  it  were  secular  tone,  a  cer 
tain  latent  suggestion  of  heroic  possibilities,  which 
he  who  had  once  become  sensible  of  it  (supposing 
him  to  be  young  and  enthusiastic)  would  linger 
about  her  hoping  to  detect,  as  you  might  stand 
watchful  of  a  florid  and  vigorous  dahlia,  which  for 
an  instant,  in  your  passage,  should  have  proved  de- 
liciously  fragrant.  It  is  upon  the  actual  existence, 
in  more  minds  than  one,  of  a  mystifying  sense  of 
this  sweet  and  remote  perfume,  that  our  story  is 
based. 

Richard  Clare  and  Miss  Whittaker  were  old 
friends.  They  had  in  the  first  place  gone  democrat 
ically  to  the  town  school  together  as  children;  and 
then  their  divergent  growth,  as  boy  and  girl,  had 
acknowledged  an  elastic  bond  in  a  continued  inti 
macy  between  Gertrude  and  Fanny  Clare,  Richard's 
sister,  who,  however,  in  the  fulness  of  time  had 
married,  and  had  followed  her  husband  to  Cali 
fornia.  With  her  departure  the  old  relations  of 
habit  between  her  brother  and  her  friend  had  slack 
ened,  and  gradually  ceased.  Richard  had  grown  up 
a  rebellious  and  troublesome  boy,  with  a  disposition 


Poor  Richard  83 


combining  stolid  apathy  and  hot-headed  impatience 
in  equal  proportions.  Losing  both  of  his  parents  be 
fore  he  was  well  out  of  his  boyhood,  he  had  found 
himself  at  the  age  of  sixteen  in  possession  actual, 
and  as  he  supposed  uncontested,  of  the  paternal 
farm.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  those 
turned  up  who  were  disposed  to  question  his  im 
mediate  ability  to  manage  it;  the  result  of  which 
was,  that  the  farm  was  leased  for  five  years,  and 
that  Richard  was  almost  forcibly  abducted  by  a  ma 
ternal  uncle,  living  on  a  farm  of  his  own  some  three 
hundred  miles  away.  Here  our  young  man  spent 
the  remainder  of  his  minority,  ostensibly  learning 
agriculture  with  his  cousins,  but  actually  learning 
nothing.  He  had  very  soon  established,  and  had 
subsequently  enjoyed  without  a  day's  interval,  the 
reputation  of  an  ill-natured  fool.  He  was  dull,  dis 
obliging,  brooding,  lowering.  Reading  and  shoot 
ing  he  liked  a  little,  because  they  were  solitary  pas 
times  ;  but  to  common  duties  and  pleasures  he  proved 
himself  as  incompetent  as  he  was  averse.  It  was 
possible  to  live  with  him  only  because  he  was  at 
once  too  selfish  and  too  simple  for  mischief.  As 
soon  as  he  came  of  age  he  resumed  possession  of 
the  acres  on  which  his  boyhood  had  been  passed, 
and  toward  which  he  gravitated  under  an  instinct 
of  mere  local  affection,  rather  than  from  any  intelli 
gent  purpose.  He  avoided  his  neighbors,  his  father's 


84  A  Landscape  Painter 

former  associates ;  he  rejected,  nay,  he  violated,  their 
counsel;  he  informed  them  that  he  wanted  no  help 
but  what  he  paid  for,  and  that  he  expected  to  work 
his  farm  for  himself  and  by  himself.  In  short,  he 
proved  himself  to  their  satisfaction  egregiously  un 
grateful,  conceited,  and  arrogant.  They  were  not 
slow  to  discover  that  his  incapacity  was  as  great  as 
his  conceit.  In  two  years  he  had  more  than  undone 
the  work  of  the  late  lessee,  which  had  been  an  im 
provement  on  that  of  the  original  owner.  In  the 
third  year,  it  seemed  to  those  who  observed  him  that 
there  was  something  so  wanton  in  his  errors  as 
almost  to  impugn  his  sanity.  He  appeared  to  have 
accepted  them  himself,  and  to  have  given  up  all 
pretence  of  work.  He  went  about  silent  and  sullen, 
like  a  man  who  feels  that  he  has  a  quarrel  with  fate. 
About  this  time  it  became  generally  known  that  he 
was  often  the  worse  for  liquor;  and  he  hereupon 
acquired  the  deplorable  reputation  of  a  man  worse 
than  unsociable, — a  man  who  drinks  alone, — 
although  it  was  still  doubtful  whether  this  practice 
was  the  cause  or  the  effect  of  his  poor  crops.  About 
this  time,  too,  he  resumed  acquaintance  with  Ger 
trude  Whittaker.  For  many  months  after  his  return 
he  had  been  held  at  his  distance,  together  with  most 
of  his  rural  compeers,  by  the  knowledge  of  her 
father's  bitter  hostility  to  all  possible  suitors  and 
fortune-hunters ;  and  then,  subsequently,  by  the  ill- 


Poor  Richard  85 


ness  preceding  the  old  man's  death ;  but  when  at  last, 
on  the  expiration  of  her  term  of  mourning,  Miss 
Whittaker  had  opened  to  society  her  long  blockaded 
ports,  Richard  had,  to  all  the  world's  amazement, 
been  among  the  first  to  profit  by  this  extension  of 
the  general  privilege,  and  to  cast  anchor  in  the  wide 
and  peaceful  waters  of  her  friendship.  He  found 
himself  at  this  moment,  considerably  to  his  surprise, 
in  his  twenty- fourth  year,  that  is,  a  few  months 
Gertrude's  junior. 

It  was  impossible  that  she  should  not  have  gath 
ered  from  mere  juxtaposition  a  vague  impression  of 
his  evil  repute  and  of  his  peculiar  relation  to  his 
neighbors,  and  to  his  own  affairs.  Thanks  to  this 
impression,  Richard  found  a  very  warm  welcome, — 
the  welcome  of  compassion.  Gertrude  gave  him  a 
heavy  arrear  of  news  from  his  sister  Fanny,  with 
whom  he  had  dropped  correspondence,  and,  impelled 
by  Fanny's  complaints  of  his  long  silence,  ventured 
upon  a  friendly  admonition  that  he  should  go 
straight  home  and  write  a  letter  to  California.  Rich 
ard  sat  before  her,  gazing  at  her  out  of  his  dark  eyes, 
and  not  only  attempting  no  defence  of  his  conduct, 
but  rejoicing  dumbly  in  the  utter  absence  of  any  pos 
sible  defence,  as  of  an  interruption  to  his  compan 
ion's  virtue.  He  wished  that  he  might  incontinently 
lay  bare  all  his  shortcomings  to  her  delicious  reproof. 
He  carried  away  an  extraordinary  sense  of  general 


86 A  Landscape  Painter 

alleviation;  and  forthwith  began  a  series  of  visits, 
which  in  the  space  of  some  ten  weeks  culminated  in 
the  interview  with  which  our  narrative  opens.  Pain 
fully  diffident  in  the  company  of  most  women,  Rich 
ard  had  not  from  the  first  known  what  it  was  to  be 
shy  with  Gertrude.  As  a  man  of  the  world  finds  it 
useful  to  refresh  his  social  energies  by  an  occasional 
tete-a-tete  of  an  hour  with  himself,  so  Richard,  with 
whom  solitude  was  the  rule,  derived  a  certain  austere 
satisfaction  from  an  hour's  contact  with  Miss  Whit- 
taker's  consoling  good  sense,  her  abundance,  her 
decent  duties  and  comforts.  Gradually,  however, 
from  a  salutary  process,  this  became  almost  an 
aesthetic  one.  It  was  now  pleasant  to  go  to  Gertrude, 
because  he  enjoyed  the  contagion  of  her  own  repose, 
— because  he  witnessed  her  happiness  without  a 
sensation  of  envy, — because  he  forgot  his  own  entan 
glements  and  errors, — because,  finally,  his  soul  slept 
away  its  troubles  beneath  her  varying  glance,  very 
much  as  his  body  had  often  slept  away  its  weariness 
in  the  shade  of  a  changing  willow.  But  the  soul, 
like  the  body,  will  not  sleep  long  without  dreaming ; 
and  it  will  not  dream  often  without  wishing  at  last 
to  tell  its  dreams.  Richard  had  one  day  ventured 
to  impart  his  visions  to  Gertrude,  and  the  revelation 
had  apparently  given  her  serious  pain.  The  fact 
that  Richard  Clare  (of  all  men  in  the  world!)  had 
somehow  worked  himself  into  an  intimacy  with  Miss 


Poor  Richard  87 


Whittaker  very  soon  became  public  property  among 
their  neighbors;  and  in  the  hands  of  these  good 
people,    naturally   enough,    received    an    important 
addition  in  the  inference  that  he  was  going  to  marry 
her.     He  was,  of  course,  esteemed  a  very  lucky 
fellow,  and  the  prevalence  of  this  impression  was 
doubtless  not  without  its  effect  on  the  forbearance 
of  certain  long-suffering  creditors.    And  even  if  she 
was  not  to  marry  him,  it  was  further  argued,  she 
yet  might  lend  him  money;   for  it  was  assumed 
without  question  that  the  necessity  of  raising  money 
was  the  mainspring  of  Richard's  suit.    It  is  needless 
to  inform  the  reader  that  this  assumption  was — to 
use  a  homely  metaphor — without  a  leg  to  stand 
upon.     Our  hero  had  faults  enough,  but  to  be  mer 
cenary  was  not  one  of  them ;  nor  was  an  excessive 
concern  on  the  subject  of  his  debts  one  of  his  virtues. 
As  for  Gertrude,  wherever  else  her  perception  of 
her  friend's  feelings  may  have  been  at  fault,  it  was 
not  at  fault  on  this  point.     That  he  loved  her  as 
desperately  as  he  declared,  she  indeed  doubted;  but 
it  never  occurred  to  her  to  question  the  purity  of  his 
affection.    And  so,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  strictly 
out  of  her  heart's  indifference  that  she  rejected  him, 
and  not  for  the  disparity  of  their  fortunes.     In 
accepting  his  very  simple  and  natural  overtures  to 
friendship,  in  calling  him  "Richard"  in  remembrance 
of  old  days,  and  in  submitting  generally  to  the  terms 


88 A  Landscape  Painter 

of  their  old  relations,  she  had  foreseen  no  senti 
mental  catastrophe.  She  had  viewed  her  friend 
from  the  first  as  an  object  of  lively  material  concern. 
She  had  espoused  his  interests  (like  all  good  women, 
Gertrude  was  ever  more  or  less  of  a  partisan)  be 
cause  she  loved  his  sister,  and  because  she  pitied  him 
self.  She  would  stand  to  him  in  loco  sororis.  The 
reader  has  seen  that  she  had  given  herself  a  long 
day's  work. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Richard's  sober 
retreat  at  the  close  of  the  walk  by  the  river  implied 
any  instinct  of  resignation  to  the  prospects  which 
Gertrude  had  opened  to  him.  It  is  explained  rather 
by  an  intensity  of  purpose  so  deep  as  to  fancy  that 
it  can  dispense  with  bravado.  This  was  not  the 
end  of  his  suit,  but  the  beginning.  He  would  not 
give  in  until  he  was  positively  beaten.  It  was  all 
very  well,  he  reflected,  that  Gertrude  should  reject 
him.  Such  a  woman  as  she  ought  properly  to  be 
striven  for,  and  there  was  something  ridiculous  in 
the  idea  that  she  should  be  easily  won,  whether  by 
himself  or  by  another.  Richard  was  a  slow  thinker, 
but  he  thought  more  wisely  than  he  talked ;  and  he 
now  took  back  all  his  angry  boasts  of  accomplished 
self-mastery,  and  humbly  surveyed  the  facts  of  the 
case.  He  was  on  the  way  to  recovery,  but  he  was 
by  no  means  cured,  and  yet  his  very  humility  assured 
him  that  he  was  curable.  He  was  no  hero,  but  he 


Poor  Richard  89 


was  better  than  his  life;  he  was  no  scholar,  but  in 
his  own  view  at  least  he  was  no  fool.  He  was  good 
enough  to  be  better;  he  was  good  enough  not  to  sit 
by  the  hour  soaking  his  slender  brains  in  whiskey. 
And  at  the  very  least,  if  he  was  not  worthy  to 
possess  Gertrude,  he  was  yet  worthy  to  strive  to 
obtain  her,  and  to  live  forevermore  upon  the  glory 
of  having  been  formally  refused  by  the  great  Miss 
Whittaker.  He  would  raise  himself  then  to  that 
level  from  which  he  could  address  her  as  an  equal, 
from  which  he  could  borrow  that  authority  of  which 
he  was  now  so  shamefully  bare.  How  he  would  do 
this,  he  was  at  a  loss  to  determine.  He  was  con 
scious  of  an  immense  fund  of  brute  volition,  but  he 
cursed  his  barbarous  ignorance,  as  he  searched  in 
vain  for  those  high  opposing  forces  the  defeat  of 
which  might  lend  dignity  to  his  struggle.  He  longed 
vaguely  for  some  continuous  muscular  effort,  at  the 
end  of  which  he  should  find  himself  face  to  face  with 
his  mistress.  But  as,  instead  of  being  a  Pagan  hero, 
with  an  enticing  task-list  of  impossibilities,  he  was 
a  plain  New  England  farmer,  with  a  bad  conscience, 
and  nature  with  him  and  not  against  him, — as,  after 
slaying  his  dragon,  after  breaking  with  liquor,  his 
work  was  a  simple  operation  in  common  sense, — in 
view  of  these  facts  he  found  but  little  inspiration  in 
his  prospect.  Nevertheless  he  fronted  it  bravely. 
He  was  not  to  obtain  Gertrude  by  making  a  for- 


90 A  Landscape  Painter 

tune,  but  by  making  himself  a  man,  by  learning  to 
think.  But  as  to  learn  to  think  is  to  learn  to 
work,  he  would  find  some  use  for  his  muscle.  He 
would  keep  sober  and  clear-headed;  he  would  re 
trieve  his  land  and  pay  his  debts.  Then  let  her 
refuse  him  if  she  could, — or  if  she  dared,  he  was 
wont  occasionally  to  add. 

Meanwhile  Gertrude  on  her  side  sat  quietly  at 
home,  revolving  in  her  own  fashion  a  dozen  ideal 
schemes  for  her  friend's  redemption  and  for  the 
diversion  of  his  enthusiasm.  Not  but  what  she  meant 
rigorously  to  fulfil  her  part  of  the  engagement  to 
which  she  had  invited  him  in  that  painful  scene  by 
the  river.  Yet  whatever  of  that  firmness,  patience, 
and  courtesy  of  which  she  possessed  so  large  a  stock 
she  might  still  oppose  to  his  importunities,  she  could 
not  feel  secure  against  repeated  intrusion  (for  it 
was  by  this  term  that  she  was  disposed  to  qualify 
all  unsanctioned  transgression  of  those  final  and 
immovable  limits  which  she  had  set  to  her  immense 
hospitality)  without  the  knowledge  of  a  partial 
change  at  least  in  Richard's  own  attitude.  Such  a 
change  could  only  be  effected  through  some  prepara 
tory  change  in  his  life ;  and  a  change  in  his  life  could 
be  brought  about  only  by  the  introduction  of  some 
new  influence.  This  influence,  however,  was  very 
hard  to  find.  However  positively  Gertrude  had 
dwelt  upon  the  practical  virtue  of  her  own  friend- 


Poor  Richard  91 


ship,  she  was  now  on  further  reflection  led  sadly  to 
distrust  the  exclusive  use  of  this  instrument.  He 
was  welcome  enough  to  that,  but  he  needed  some 
thing  more.  It  suddenly  occurred  to  her,  one  morn 
ing  after  Richard's  image  had  been  crossing  and 
recrossing  her  mental  vision  for  a  couple  of  hours 
with  wearisome  pertinacity,  that  a  world  of  good 
might  accrue  to  him  through  the  friendship  of  a 
person  so  unexceptionable  as  Captain  Severn.  There 
was  no  one,  she  declared  within  herself,  who  would 
not  be  better  for  knowing  such  a  man.  She  would 
recommend  Richard  to  his  kindness,  and  him  she 
would  recommend  to  Richard's — what?  Here  was 
the  rub !  Where  was  there  common  ground  between 
Richard  and  such  a  one  as  he?  To  request  him  to 
like  Richard  was  easy;  to  ask  Richard  to  like  him 
was  ridiculous.  If  Richard  could  only  know  him, 
the  work  were  done;  he  couldn't  choose  but  love 
him  as  a  brother.  But  to  bespeak  Richard's  respect 
for  an  object  was  to  fill  him  straightway  with 
aversion  for  it.  Her  young  friend  was  so  pitiable 
a  creature  himself,  that  it  had  never  occurred  to 
her  to  appeal  to  his  sentiments  of  compassion.  All 
the  world  seemed  above  him,  and  he  was  conse 
quently  at  odds  with  all  the  world.  If  some  worthy 
being  could  be  found,  even  less  favored  of  nature 
and  of  fortune  than  himself,  to  such  a  one  he  might 
become  attached  by  a  useful  sympathy.  There  was 


92 A  Landscape  Painter 

indeed  nothing  particularly  enviable  in  Captain 
Severn's  lot,  and  herein  Richard  might  properly  ex 
perience  a  fellow-feeling  for  him;  but  nevertheless 
he  was  apparently  quite  contented  with  it,  and  thus 
he  was  raised  several  degrees  above  Richard,  who 
would  be  certain  to  find  something  aggressive  in  his 
equanimity.  Still,  for  all  this,  Gertrude  would  bring 
them  together.  She  had  a  high  estimate  of  the  Cap 
tain's  generosity,  and  if  Richard  should  wantonly 
fail  to  conform  to  the  situation,  the  loss  would  be 
his  own.  It  may  be  thought  that  in  this  enterprise 
Captain  Severn  was  somewhat  inconsiderately  han 
dled.  But  a  generous  woman  will  freely  make  a 
missionary  of  the  man  she  loves.  These  words  sug 
gest  the  propriety  of  a  short  description  of  the  per 
son  to  whom  they  refer. 

Edmund  Severn  was  a  man  of  eight-and-twenty, 
who,  having  for  some  time  combated  fortune  and 
his  own  inclinations  as  a  mathematical  tutor  in  a 
second-rate  country  college,  had,  on  the  opening  of 
the  war,  transferred  his  valor  to  a  more  heroic  field. 
His  regiment  of  volunteers,  now  at  work  before 
Richmond,  had  been  raised  in  Miss  Whittaker's  dis 
trict,  and  beneath  her  substantial  encouragement. 
His  soldiership,  like  his  scholarship,  was  solid  rather 
than  brilliant.  He  was  not  destined  to  be  heard  of 
at  home,  nor  to  leave  his  regiment ;  but  on  many  an 
important  occasion  in  Virginia  he  had  proved  him- 


Poor  Richard  93 


self  in  a  modest  way  an  excellently  useful  man. 
Coming  up  early  in  the  war  with  a  severe  wound, 
to  be  nursed  by  a  married  sister  domiciled  in  Ger 
trude's  neighborhood,  he  was,  like  all  his  fellow- 
sufferers  within  a  wide  circuit,  very  soon  honored 
with  a  visit  of  anxious  inquiry  from  Miss  Whittaker, 
who  was  as  yet  known  to  him  only  by  report,  and 
who  transmitted  to  him  the  warmest  assurances  of 
sympathy  and  interest,  together  with  the  liveliest 
offers  of  assistance;  and,  incidentally  as  it  were  to 
these,  a  copious  selection  from  the  products  of  her 
hot-house  and  store-room.  Severn  had  taken  the 
air  for  the  first  time  in  Gertrude's  own  great  cush 
ioned  barouche,  which  she  had  sent  to  his  door  at 
an  early  stage  of  his  convalescence,  and  which  of 
course  he  had  immediately  made  use  of  to  pay  his 
respects  to  his  benefactress.  He  was  confounded  by 
the  real  humility  with  which,  on  this  occasion,  be 
twixt  smiles  and  tears,  she  assured  him  that  to  be  of 
service  to  such  as  him  was  for  her  a  sacred  privilege. 
Never,  thought  the  Captain  as  he  drove  away,  had 
he  seen  so  much  rustic  breadth  combined  with  so 
much  womanly  grace.  Half  a  dozen  visits  during 
the  ensuing  month  more  than  sufficed  to  convert  him 
into  what  is  called  an  admirer;  but,  as  the  weeks 
passed  by,  he  felt  that  there  were  great  obstacles  to 
his  ever  ripening  into  a  lover.  Captain  Severn  was 
a  serious  man ;  he  was  conscientious,  discreet,  delib- 


94 A  Landscape  Painter 

erate,   unused   to  act  without  a  definite  purpose. 
Whatever  might  be  the  intermediate  steps,  it  was 
necessary  that  the  goal  of  an  enterprise  should  have 
become  an  old  story  to  him  before  he  took  the  first 
steps.    And,  moreover,  if  the  goal  seemed  a  profit 
able  or  an  honorable  station,  he  was  proof  against 
the  perils  or  the  discomforts  of  the  journey;  while 
if,  on  the  other  hand,  it  offered  no  permanent  repose, 
he  generally  found  but  little  difficulty  in  resisting  the 
incidental  allurements.     In  pursuance  of  this  habit, 
or  rather  in  obedience  to  this  principle,  of  carefully 
fixing  his  programme,  he  had  asked  himself  whether 
he  was  prepared  to  face  the  logical  results  of  a  series 
of  personal  attentions  to  our  heroine.    Since  he  had 
determined  a  twelvemonth  before  not  to  marry  until, 
by  some  means  or  another,  he  should  have  evoked  a 
sufficient  income,  no  great  change  had  taken  place 
in  his  fortunes.     He  was  still  a  poor  man  and  an 
unsettled  one ;  he  was  still  awaiting  his  real  vocation. 
Moreover,  while  subject  to  the  chances  of  war,  he 
doubted  his  right  to  engage  a  woman's  affections : 
he  shrank  in  horror  from  the  thought  of  making  a 
widow.     Miss  Whittaker  was  one  in  five  thousand. 
Before  the  luminous  fact  of  her  existence,  his  dim 
ideal  of  the  desirable  wife  had  faded  into  vapor. 
But  should  he  allow  this  fact  to  invalidate  all  the 
stern  precepts  of  his  reason?     He  could  no  more 
afford  to  marry  a  rich  woman  than  a  poor  one. 


Poor  Richard  95 


When  he  should  have  earned  a  subsistence  for  two, 
then  he  would  be  free  to  marry  whomsoever  he 
might  fancy, — a  beggar  or  an  heiress.  The  truth  is, 
that  the  Captain  was  a  great  deal  too  proud.  It  was 
his  fault  that  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  forget 
the  difference  between  his  poverty  and  Gertrude's 
wealth.  He  would  of  course  have  resented  the 
insinuation  that  the  superior  fortune  of  the  woman 
he  loved  should  really  have  force  to  prevent  him 
from  declaring  his  love;  but  there  is  no  doubt  that 
in  the  case  before  us  this  fact  arrested  his  passion 
in  its  origin.  Severn  had  a  most  stoical  aversion  to 
being  in  debt.  It  is  certain  that,  after  all,  he  would 
have  made  a  very  graceful  debtor  to  his  mistress 
or  his  wife ;  but  while  a  woman  was  as  yet  neither 
his  mistress  nor  his  wife,  the  idea  of  being  beholden 
to  her  was  essentially  distasteful  to  him.  It  would 
have  been  a  question  with  one  who  knew  him, 
whether  at  this  juncture  this  frigid  instinct  was  des 
tined  to  resist  the  warmth  of  Gertrude's  charms,  or 
whether  it  was  destined  gradually  to  melt  away. 
There  would  have  been  no  question,  however,  but 
that  it  could  maintain  itself  only  at  the  cost  of  great 
suffering  to  its  possessor.  At  this  moment,  then, 
Severn  had  made  up  his  mind  that  Gertrude  was  not 
for  him,  and  that  it  behooved  him  to  be  sternly 
vigilant  both  of  his  impulses  and  his  impressions. 
That  Miss  Whittaker,  with  a  hundred  rational  cares, 


96 A  Landscape  Painter 

was  anything  less  than  supremely  oblivious  of  him, 
individually,  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  suspect. 
The  truth  is,  that  Gertrude's  private  and  personal 
emotions  were  entertained  in  a  chamber  of  her  heart 
so  remote  from  the  portals  of  speech  that  no  sound 
of  their  revelry  found  its  way  into  the  world.  She 
constantly  thought  of  her  modest,  soldierly,  scholarly 
friend  as  of  one  whom  a  wise  woman  might  find  it 
very  natural  to  love.  But  what  was  she  to  him  ?  A 
local  roadside  figure, — at  the  very  most  a  sort  of 
millionaire  Maud  Muller, — with  whom  it  was  pleas 
ant  for  a  lonely  wayfarer  to  exchange  a  friendly 
"good-morning."  Her  duty  was  to  fold  her  arms 
resignedly,  to  sit  quietly  on  the  sofa,  and  watch  a 
great  happiness  sink  below  the  horizon.  With  this 
impression  on  Gertrude's  part  it  is  not  surprising 
that  Severn  was  not  wrenched  out  of  himself.  The 
prodigy  was  apparently  to  be  wrought — if  wrought 
at  all — by  her  common,  unbought  sweetness.  It  is 
true  that  this  was  of  a  potency  sufficient  almost  to 
work  prodigies ;  but  as  yet  its  effect  upon  Severn  had 
been  none  other  than  its  effect  upon  all  the  world. 
It  kept  him  in  his  kindliest  humor.  It  kept  him  even 
in  the  humor  of  talking  sentiment ;  but  although,  in 
the  broad  sunshine  of  her  listening,  his  talk  bloomed 
thick  with  field-flowers,  he  never  invited  her  to  pluck 
the  least  little  daisy.  It  was  with  perfect  honesty, 
therefore,  that  she  had  rebutted  Richard's  insinua- 


Poor  Richard  97 


tion  that  the  Captain  enjoyed  any  especial  favor.  He 
was  as  yet  but  another  of  the  pensioners  of  her  good 
nature. 

The  result  of  Gertrude's  meditations  was,  that  she 
despatched  a  note  to  each  of  her  two  friends,  re 
questing  them  to  take  tea  with  her  on  the  following 
day.  A  couple  of  hours  before  tea-time  she  received 
a  visit  from  one  Major  Luttrel,  who  was  recruiting 
for  a  United  States  regiment  at  a  large  town,  some 
ten  miles  away,  and  who  had  ridden  over  in  the 
afternoon,  in  accordance  with  a  general  invitation 
conveyed  to  him  through  an  old  lady  who  had 
bespoken  Miss  Whittaker's  courtesy  for  him  as  a 
man  of  delightful  manners  and  wonderful  talents. 
Gertrude,  on  her  venerable  friend's  representations, 
had  replied,  with  her  wonted  alacrity,  that  she  would 
be  very  glad  to  see  Major  Luttrel,  should  he  ever 
come  that  way,  and  then  had  thought  no  more  about 
him  until  his  card  was  brought  to  her  as  she  was 
dressing  for  the  evening.  He  found  so  much  to  say 
to  her,  that  the  interval  passed  very  rapidly  for  both 
of  them  before  the  simultaneous  entrance  of  Miss 
Pendexter  and  of  Gertrude's  guests.  The  two  offi 
cers  were  already  slightly  known  to  each  other,  and 
Richard  was  accordingly  presented  to  each  of  them. 
They  eyed  the  distracted-looking  young  farmer  with 
some  curiosity.  Richard's  was  at  all  times  a  figure 
to  attract  attention;  but  now  he  was  almost  pic- 


98 A  Landscape  Painter 

turesque  (so  Severn  thought  at  least)  with  his  care 
less  garments,  his  pale  face,  his  dark  mistrustful 
eyes,  and  his  nervous  movements.  Major  Luttrel, 
who  struck  Gertrude  as  at  once  very  agreeable  and 
the  least  bit  in  the  world  disagreeable,  was,  of  course, 
invited  to  remain, — which  he  straightway  consented 
to  do;  and  it  soon  became  evident  to  Miss  Whitta- 
ker  that  her  little  scheme  was  destined  to  miscarry. 
Richard  practised  a  certain  defiant  silence,  which, 
as  she  feared,  gave  him  eventually  a  decidedly  ridic 
ulous  air.  His  companions  displayed  toward  their 
hostess  that  half-avowed  effort  to  shine  and  to  out 
shine  natural  to  clever  men  who  find  themselves  con 
curring  to  the  entertainment  of  a  young  and  agree 
able  woman.  Richard  sat  by,  wondering,  in  splenetic 
amazement,  whether  he  was  an  ignorant  boor,  or 
whether  they  were  only  a  brace  of  inflated  snobs. 
He  decided,  correctly  enough,  in  substance,  for  the 
former  hypothesis.  For  it  seemed  to  him  that  Ger 
trude's  consummate  accommodation  (for  as  such 
he  viewed  it)  of  her  tone  and  her  manner  to  theirs 
added  prodigiously  (so  his  lover's  instinct  taught 
him)  to  her  loveliness  and  dignity.  How  magnani 
mous  an  impulse  on  Richard's  part  was  this  sub 
mission  for  his  sweetheart's  sake  to  a  fact  damning 
to  his  own  vanity,  could  have  been  determined  only 
by  one  who  knew  the  proportions  of  that  vanity.  He 
writhed  and  chafed  under  the  polish  of  tone  and  the 


Poor  Richard  99 


variety  of  allusion  by  which  the  two  officers  con 
signed  him  to  insignificance;  but  he  was  soon  lost 
in  wonder  at  the  mettlesome  grace  and  vivacity  with 
which  Gertrude  sustained  her  share  of  the  conver 
sation.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  him  that  her 
tenderness  for  his  equanimity  (for  should  she  not 
know  his  mind, — she  who  had  made  it?)  might 
reasonably  have  caused  her  to  forego  such  an  exhibi 
tion  of  her  social  accomplishments  as  would  but 
remind  him  afresh  of  his  own  deficiencies;  but  the 
next  moment  he  asked  himself,  with  a  great  revul 
sion  of  feeling,  whether  he,  a  conscious  suitor,  should 
fear  to  know  his  mistress  in  her  integrity.  As  he 
gulped  down  the  sickening  fact  of  his  comparative, 
nay,  his  absolute  ignorance  of  the  great  world  rep 
resented  by  his  rivals,  he  felt  like  anticipating  its 
consequences  by  a  desperate  sally  into  the  very  field 
of  their  conversation.  To  some  such  movement 
Gertrude  was  continually  inviting  him  by  her  glances, 
her  smiles,  her  questions,  and  her  appealing  silence. 
But  poor  Richard  knew  that,  if  he  should  attempt 
to  talk,  he  would  choke;  and  this  assurance  he  im 
parted  to  his  friend  in  a  look  piteously  eloquent. 
He  was  conscious  of  a  sensation  of  rage  under  which 
his  heart  was  fast  turning  into  a  fiery  furnace, 
destined  to  consume  all  his  good  resolutions.  He 
could  not  answer  for  the  future  now.  Suddenly,  as 
tea  was  drawing  to  a  close,  He  became  aware  that 


100 A  Landscape  Painter 

Captain  Severn  had  lapsed  into  a  silence  very  nearly 
as  profound  as  his  own,  and  that  he  was  covertly 
watching  the  progress  of  a  lively  dialogue  between 
Miss  Whittaker  and  Major  Luttrel.  He  had  the 
singular  experience  of  seeing  his  own  feelings  re 
flected  in  the  Captain's  face;  that  is,  he  discerned 
there  an  incipient  jealousy.  Severn  too  was  in  love ! 
On  rising  from  table,  Gertrude  proposed  an  ad 
journment  to  the  garden,  where  she  was  very  fond 
of  entertaining  her  friends  at  this  hour.  The  sun 
had  sunk  behind  a  long  line  of  hills,  far  beyond  the 
opposite  bank  of  the  river,  a  portion  of  which  was 
discernible  through  a  gap  in  the  intervening  wood. 
The  high-piled  roof  and  chimney-stacks,  the  pic 
turesquely  crowded  surface,  of  the  old  patched  and 
renovated  farm-house  which  served  Gertrude  as  a 
villa,  were  ruddy  with  the  declining  rays.  Our 
friends'  long  shadows  were  thrown  over  the  short 
grass.  Gertrude,  having  graciously  anticipated  the 
gentlemen's  longing  for  their  cigars,  suggested  a 
stroll  toward  the  river.  Before  she  knew  it,  she  had 
accepted  Major  Luttrel's  arm ;  and  as  Miss  Pen- 
dexter  preferred  remaining  at  home,  Severn  and 
Richard  found  themselves  lounging  side  by  side  at  a 
short  distance  behind  their  hostess.  Gertrude,  who 
had  marked  the  reserve  which  had  suddenly  fallen 
upon  Captain  Severn,  and  in  her  simplicity  had  re 
ferred  it  to  some  unwitting  failure  of  attention  on 


Poor  Richard  101 


her  own  part,  had  hoped  to  repair  her  neglect  by 
having  him  at  her  own  side.  She  was  in  some  degree 
consoled,  however,  by  the  sight  of  his  happy  jux 
taposition  with  Richard.  As  for  Richard,  now  that 
he  was  on  his  feet  and  in  the  open  air,  he  found  it 
easier  to  speak. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  he  asked,  nodding  toward  the 
Major. 

"Major  Luttrel,  of  the  — th  Artillery." 

"I  don't  like  his  face  much,"  said  Richard. 

"Don't  you?"  rejoined  Severn,  amused  at  his 
companion's  bluntness.  "He's  not  handsome,  but 
he  looks  like  a  soldier." 

"He  looks  like  a  rascal,  I  think,"  said  Richard. 

Severn  laughed  outright,  so  that  Gertrude  glanced 
back  at  him.  "Dear  me !  I  think  you  put  it  rather 
strongly.  I  should  call  it  a  very  intelligent  face." 

Richard  was  sorely  perplexed.  He  had  expected 
to  find  acceptance  for  his  bitterest  animadversions, 
and  lo !  here  was  the  Captain  fighting  for  his  enemy. 
Such  a  man  as  that  was  no  rival.  So  poor  a  hater 
could  be  but  a  poor  lover.  Nevertheless,  a  certain 
new-born  mistrust  of  his  old  fashion  of  measuring 
human  motives  prevented  him  from  adopting  this 
conclusion  as  final.  He  would  try  another  ques 
tion. 

"Do  you  know  Miss  Whittaker  well?"  he  asked. 

"Tolerably  well.     She  was  very  kind  to  me  when 


'102  A  Landscape  Painter 

I  was  ill.  Since  then  I've  seen  her  some  dozen 
times." 

"That's  a  way  she  has,  being  kind,'*  said  Richard, 
with  what  he  deemed  considerable  shrewdness.  But 
as  the  Captain  merely  puffed  his  cigar  responsively, 
he  pursued,  "What  do  you  think  of  her  face?" 

"I  like  it  very  much,"  said  the  Captain. 

"She  isn't  beautiful,"  said  Richard,  cunningly. 

Severn  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then,  just  as 
Richard  was  about  to  dismiss  him  from  his  thoughts, 
as  neither  formidable  nor  satisfactory,  he  replied, 
with  some  emphasis,  "You  mean  she  isn't  pretty. 
She  is  beautiful,  I  think,  in  spite  of  the  irregularity 
of  her  face.  It's  a  face  not  to  be  forgotten.  She 
has  no  features,  no  color,  no  lilies  or  roses,  no 
attitudes;  but  she  has  looks,  expression.  Her  face 
has  character;  and  so  has  her  figure.  It  has  no 
'style,'  as  they  call  it ;  but  that  only  belongs  properly 
to  a  work  of  art,  which  Miss  Whittaker's  figure 
isn't,  thank  Heaven!  She's  as  unconscious  of  it  as 
Nature  herself." 

Severn  spoke  Richard's  mind  as  well  as  his  own. 
That  "She  isn't  beautiful"  had  been  an  extempore 
version  of  the  young  man's  most  sacred  dogma, 
namely,  She  is  beautiful.  The  reader  will  remember 
that  he  had  so  translated  it  on  a  former  occasion. 
Now,  all  that  he  felt  was  a  sense  of  gratitude  to 
the  Captain  for  having  put  it  so  much  more  finely 


Poor  Richard  103 


than  he,  the  above  being  his  choicest  public  expres 
sion  of  it.  But  the  Captain's  eyes,  somewhat  bright 
ened  by  his  short  but  fervid  speech,  were  following 
Gertrude's  slow  steps.  Richard  saw  that  he  could 
learn  more  from  them  than  from  any  further  oral 
declaration;  for  something  in  the  mouth  beneath 
them  seemed  to  indicate  that  it  had  judged  itself  to 
have  said  enough,  and  it  was  obviously  not  the  mouth 
of  a  simpleton.  As  he  thus  deferred  with  an  un 
wonted  courtesy  to  the  Captain's  silence,  and  trans 
ferred  his  gaze  sympathetically  to  Gertrude's 
shapely  shoulders  and  to  her  listening  ear,  he  gave 
utterance  to  a  telltale  sigh, — a  sigh  which  there  was 
no  mistaking.  Severn  looked  about ;  it  was  now  his 
turn  to  scrutinize.  "Good  Heavens !"  he  exclaimed, 
"that  boy  is  in  love  with  her!" 

After  the  first  shock  of  surprise,  he  accepted  this 
fact  with  rational  calmness.  Why  shouldn't  he  be 
in  love  with  her  ?  "Je  le  suis  bien"  said  the  Captain ; 
"or,  rather,  I'm  not."  Could  it  be,  Severn  pursued, 
that  he  was  a  favorite  ?  He  was  a  mannerless  young 
farmer;  but  it  was  plain  that  he  had  a  soul  of  his 
own.  He  almost  wished,  indeed,  that  Richard  might 
prove  to  be  in  Gertrude's  good  graces.  "But  if  he 
is,"  he  reflected,  "why  should  he  sigh?  It  is  true 
that  there  is  no  arguing  for  lovers.  I,  who  am  out 
in  the  cold,  take  my  comfort  in  whistling  most  im 
pertinently.  It  may  be  that  my  friend  here  groans 


104 A  Landscape  Painter ^^ 

for  very  bliss.  I  confess,  however,  that  he  scarcely 
looks  like  a  favored  swain." 

And  forthwith  this  faint-hearted  gentleman  felt  a 
twinge  of  pity  for  Richard's  obvious  infelicity;  and 
as  he  compared  it  with  the  elaborately  defensive 
condition  of  his  own  affections,  he  felt  a  further 
pang  of  self-contempt.  But  it  was  easier  to  restore 
the  equilibrium  of  his  self-respect  by  an  immediate 
cession  of  the  field,  than  by  contesting  it  against  this 
wo  fully  wounded  knight.  "Whether  he  wins  her  or 
not,  he'll  fight  for  her,"  the  Captain  declared;  and 
as  he  glanced  at  Major  Luttrel,  he  felt  that  this  was 
a  sweet  assurance.  He  had  conceived  a  singular 
distrust  of  the  Major. 

They  had  now  reached  the  water's  edge,  where 
Gertrude,  having  arrested  her  companion,  had  turned 
about,  expectant  of  her  other  guests.  As  they  came 
up,  Severn  saw,  or  thought  that  he  saw  (which  is 
a  very  different  thing),  that  her  first  look  was  at 
Richard.  The  "admirer"  in  his  breast  rose  fratri 
cidal  for  a  moment  against  the  quiet  observer;  but 
the  next,  it  was  pinioned  again.  "Amen,"  said  the 
Captain;  "it's  none  of  my  business." 

At  this  moment,  Richard  was  soaring  most  hero 
ically.  The  end  of  his  anguish  had  been  a  sudden 
intoxication.  He  surveyed  the  scene  before  him 
with  a  kindling  fancy.  Why  should  he  stand  tongue- 
tied  in  sullen  mistrust  of  fortune,  when  all  nature 


Poor  Richard  105 


beckoned  him  into  the  field?  There  was  the  river- 
path  where,  a  fortnight  before,  he  had  found  an 
eloquence  attested  by  Gertrude's  tears.  There  was 
sweet  Gertrude  herself,  whose  hand  he  had  kissed 
and  whose  waist  he  had  clasped.  Surely,  he  was 
master  here!  Before  he  knew  it,  he  had  begun  to 
talk, — rapidly,  nervously,  and  almost  defiantly. 
Major  Luttrel,  having  made  an  observation  about 
the  prettiness  of  the  river,  Richard  entered  upon  a 
description  of  its  general  course  and  its  superior 
beauty  upon  his  own  place,  together  with  an  enumer 
ation  of  the  fish  which  were  to  be  found  in  it,  and 
a  story  about  a  great  overflow*  ten  years  before.  He 
spoke  in  fair,  coherent  terms,  but  with  singular 
intensity  and  vehemence,  and  with  his  head  thrown 
back  and  his  eyes  on  the  opposite  bank.  At  last  he 
stopped,  feeling  that  he  had  given  proof  of  his  man 
hood,  and  looked  towards  Gertrude,  whose  eyes  he 
had  been  afraid  to  meet  until  he  had  seen  his  adven 
ture  to  a  close.  But  she  was  looking  at  Captain 
Severn,  under  the  impression  that  Richard  had 
secured  his  auditor.  Severn  was  looking  at  Luttrel, 
and  Luttrel  at  Miss  Whittaker;  and  all  were  ap 
parently  so  deep  in  observation  that  they  had  marked 
neither  his  speech  nor  his  silence.  "Truly,"  thought 
the  young  man,  "I'm  well  out  of  the  circle !"  But 
he  was  resolved  to  be  patient  still,  which  was  as 
suredly,  all  things  considered,  a  very  brave  resolve. 


106 A  Landscape  Painter 

Yet  there  was  always  something  spasmodic  and  un 
natural  in  Richard's  magnanimity.  A  touch  in  the 
wrong  place  would  cause  it  to  collapse.  It  was 
Gertrude's  evil  fortune  to  administer  this  touch  at 
present.  As  the  party  turned  about  toward  the 
house,  Richard  stepped  to  her  side  and  offered  her 
his  arm,  hoping  in  his  heart — so  implicitly  did  he 
count  upon  her  sympathy,  so  almost  boyishly,  filially, 
did  he  depend  upon  it — for  some  covert  token  that 
his  heroism,  such  as  it  was,  had  not  been  lost  upon 
her. 

But  Gertrude,  intensely  preoccupied  by  the  desire 
to  repair  her  fancied  injustice  to  the  Captain,  shook 
her  head  at  him  without  even  meeting  his  eye. 
"Thank  you/'  she  said ;  "I  want  Captain  Severn," 
who  forthwith  approached. 

Poor  Richard  felt  his  feet  touch  the  ground  again. 
He  felt  that  he  could  have  flung  the  Captain  into 
the  stream.  Major  Luttrel  placed  himself  at  Ger 
trude's  other  elbow,  an/i  Richard  stood  behind  them, 
almost  livid  with  spite,  and  half  resolved  to  turn 
upon  his  heel  and  make  his  way  home  by  the  river. 
But  it  occurred  to  him  that  a  more  elaborate  ven 
geance  would  be  to  follow  the  trio  before  him  back 
to  the  lawn,  and  there  make  it  a  silent  and  scathing 
bow.  Accordingly,  when  they  reached  the  house,  he 
stood  aloof  and  bade  Gertrude  a  grim  good-night. 
He  trembled  with  eagerness  to  see  whether  she 


Poor  Richard  107 


would  make  an  attempt  to  detain  him.  But  Miss 
Whittaker,  reading  in  his  voice — it  had  grown  too 
dark  to  see  his  face  at  the  distance  at  which  he  stood 
— the  story  of  some  fancied  affront,  and  uncon 
sciously  contrasting  it,  perhaps,  with  Severn's  clear 
and  unwarped  accents,  obeyed  what  she  deemed  a 
prompting  of  self-respect,  and  gave  him,  without 
her  hand,  a  farewell  as  cold  as  his  own.  It  is  but 
fair  to  add,  that,  a  couple  of  hours  later,  as  she 
reviewed  the  incidents  of  the  evening,  she  repented 
most  generously  of  this  little  act  of  justice. 


PART  II 

RICHARD  got  through  the  following  week  he 
hardly  knew  how.  He  found  occupation,  to  a  much 
greater  extent  than  he  was  actually  aware  of,  in  a 
sordid  and  yet  heroic  struggle  with  himself.  For 
several  months  now,  he  had  been  leading,  under 
Gertrude's  inspiration,  a  strictly  decent  and  sober 
life.  So  long  as  he  was  at  comparative  peace  with 
Gertrude  and  with  himself,  such  a  life  was  more 
than  easy;  it  was  delightful.  It  produced  a  moral 
buoyancy  infinitely  more  delicate  and  more  constant 
than  the  gross  exhilaration  of  his  old  habits.  There 
was  a  kind  of  fascination  in  adding  hour  to  hour, 
and  day  to  day,  in  this  record  of  his  new-born 
austerity.  Having  abjured  excesses,  he  practised 
temperance  after  the  fashion  of  a  novice :  he  raised 
it  (or  reduced  it)  to  abstinence.  He  was  like  an 
unclean  man  who,  having  washed  himself  clean, 
remains  in  the  water  for  the  love  of  it.  He  wished 

108 


Poor  Richard  109 


to  be  religiously,   superstitiously  pure.     This  was 
easy,  as  we  have  said,  so  long  as  his  goddess  smiled, 
even  though  it  were  as  a  goddess  indeed, — as  a 
creature  unattainable.    But  when  she  frowned,  and 
the  heavens  grew  dark,  Richard's  sole  dependence 
was  in  his  own  will, — as  flimsy  a  trust  for  an  up 
ward  scramble,  one  would  have  premised,  as  a  tuft 
of  grass  on  the  face  of  a  perpendicular  cliff.    Flimsy 
as  it  looked,  however,  it  served  him.    It  started  and 
crumbled,  but  it  held,  if  only  by  a  single  fibre.    When 
Richard  had  cantered  fifty  yards  away  from  Ger 
trude's  gate  in  a  fit  of  stupid  rage,  he  suddenly 
pulled  up  his  horse  and  gulped  down  his  passion, 
and  swore  an  oath,  that,  suffer  what  torments  of 
feeling  he  might,  he  would  not  at  least  break  the 
continuity  of  his  gross  physical  soberness.     It  was 
enough  to  be  drunk  in  mind ;  he  would  not  be  drunk 
in  body.     A  singular,  almost  ridiculous  feeling  of 
antagonism  to  Gertrude  lent  force  to  this  resolution. 
"No,  madam,"  he  cried  within  himself,  "I  shall  not 
fall  back.     Do  your  best!     I  shall  keep  straight." 
We  often  outweather  great  offences  and  afflictions 
through  a  certain  healthy  instinct  of  egotism.    Rich 
ard  went  to  bed  that  night  as  grim  and  sober  as  a 
Trappist  monk;  and  his  foremost  impulse  the  next 
day  was  to  plunge  headlong  into  some  physical  labor 
which  should  not  allow  him  a  moment's  interval  of 
idleness.     He  found  no  labor  to  his  taste;  but  he 


110  A  Landscape  Painter 

spent  the  day  so  actively,  in  the  mechanical  anni 
hilation  of  the  successive  hours,  that  Gertrude's 
image  found  no  chance  squarely  to  face  him.  He 
was  engaged  in  the  work  of  self-preservation, — the 
most  serious  and  absorbing  work  possible  to  man. 
Compared  to  the  results  here  at  stake,  his  passion 
for  Gertrude  seemed  but  a  fiction.  It  is  perhaps 
difficult  to  give  a  more  lively  impression  of  the 
vigor  of  this  passion,  of  its  maturity  and  its  strength, 
than  by  simply  stating  that  it  discreetly  held  itself 
in  abeyance  until  Richard  had  set  at  rest  his  doubts 
of  that  which  lies  nearer  than  all  else  to  the  heart 
of  man, — his  doubts  of  the  strength  of  his  will.  He 
answered  these  doubts  by  subjecting  his  resolution 
to  a  course  of  such  cruel  temptations  as  were  likely 
either  to  shiver  it  to  a  myriad  of  pieces,  or  to  season 
it  perfectly  to  all  the  possible  requirements  of  life. 
He  took  long  rides  over  the  country,  passing  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  as  many  of  the  scattered  wayside 
taverns  as  could  be  combined  in  a  single  circuit. 
As  he  drew  near  them  he  sometimes  slackened  his 
pace,  as  if  he  were  about  to  dismount,  pulled  up  his 
horse,  gazed  a  moment,  then,  thrusting  in  his  spurs, 
galloped  away  again  like  one  pursued.  At  other 
times,  in  the  late  evening,  when  the  window-panes 
were  aglow  with  the  ruddy  light  within,  he  would 
walk  slowly  by,  looking  at  the  stars,  and,  after 
maintaining  this  stoical  pace  for  a  couple  of  miles, 


Poor  Richard  111 


would  hurry  home  to  his  own  lonely  and  black- 
windowed  dwelling.  Having  successfully  performed 
this  feat  a  certain  number  of  times,  he  found  his 
love  coming  back  to  him,  bereft  in  the  interval  of  its 
attendant  jealousy.  In  obedience  to  it,  he  one  morn 
ing  leaped  upon  his  horse  and  repaired  to  Gertrude's 
abode,  with  no  definite  notion  of  the  terms  in  which 
he  should  introduce  himself. 

He  had  made  himself  comparatively  sure  of  his 
will ;  but  he  was  yet  to  acquire  the  mastery  of  his 
impulses.  As  he  gave  up  his  horse,  according  to  his 
wont,  to  one  of  the  men  at  the  stable,  he  saw  another 
steed  stalled  there  which  he  recognized  as  Captain 
Severn's.  "Steady,  my  boy,"  he  murmured  to  him 
self,  as  he  would  have  done  to  a  frightened  horse. 
On  his  way  across  the  broad  court-yard  toward  the 
house,  he  encountered  the  Captain,  who  had  just 
taken  his  leave.  Richard  gave  him  a  generous 
salute  (he  could  not  trust  himself  to  more),  and 
Severn  answered  with  what  was  at  least  a  strictly 
just  one.  Richard  observed,  however,  that  he  was 
very  pale,  and  that  he  was  pulling  a  rosebud  to  pieces 
as  he  walked ;  whereupon  our  young  man  quickened 
his  step.  Finding  the  parlor  empty,  he  instinctively 
crossed  over  to  a  small  room  adjoining  it,  which 
Gertrude  had  converted  into  a  modest  conservatory ; 
and  as  he  did  so,  hardly  knowing  it,  he  lightened  his 
heavy-shod  tread.  The  glass  door  was  open  and 


112  A  Landscape  Painter 

Richard  looked  in.  There  stood  Gertrude  with  her 
back  to  him,  bending  apart  with  her  hands  a  couple 
of  tall  flowering  plants,  and  looking  through  the 
glazed  partition  behind  them.  Advancing  a  step,  and 
glancing  over  the  young  girl's  shoulder,  Richard  had 
just  time  to  see  Severn  mounting  his  horse  at  the 
stable  door,  before  Gertrude,  startled  by  his  ap 
proach,  turned  hastily  round.  Her  face  was  flushed 
hot,  and  her  eyes  brimming  with  tears. 

"You !"  she  exclaimed,  sharply. 

Richard's  head  swam.  That  single  word  was  so 
charged  with  cordial  impatience  that  it  seemed  the 
death-knell  of  his  hope.  He  stepped  inside  the  room 
and  closed  the  door,  keeping  his  hand  on  the 
knob. 

"Gertrude,"  he  said,  "you  love  that  man !" 

"Well,  sir?" 

"Do  you  confess  it?"  cried  Richard. 

"Confess  it?  Richard  Clare,  how  dare  you  use 
such  language  ?  I'm  in  no  humor  for  a  scene.  Let 
me  pass." 

Gertrude  was  angry;  but  as  for  Richard,  it  may 
almost  be  said  that  he  was  mad.  "One  scene  a  day 
is  enough,  I  suppose,"  he  cried.  "What  are  these 
tears  about  ?  Wouldn't  he  have  you  ?  Did  he  refuse 
you,  as  you  refused  me?  Poor  Gertrude!" 

Gertrude  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  concen 
trated  scorn.  "You  fool !"  she  said,  for  all  answer. 


Poor  Richard  113 


She  pushed  his  hand  from  the  latch,  flung  open  the 
door,  and  moved  rapidly  away. 

Left  alone,  Richard  sank  down  on  a  sofa  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  It  burned  them, 
but  he  sat  motionless,  repeating  to  himself,  me 
chanically,  as  if  to  avert  thought,  "You  fool!  you 
fool !"  At  last  he  got  up  and  made  his  way  out. 

It  seemed  to  Gertrude,  for  several  hours  after  this 
scene,  that  she  had  at  this  juncture  a  strong  case 
against  Fortune.  It  is  not  our  purpose  to  repeat  the 
words  which  she  had  exchanged  with  Captain 
Severn.  They  had  come  within  a  single  step  of  an 
eclair cissement,  and  when  but  another  movement 
would  have  flooded  their  souls  with  light,  some 
malignant  influence  had  seized  them  by  the  throats. 
Had  they  too  much  pride? — too  little  imagination? 
We  must  content  ourselves  with  this  hypothesis. 
Severn,  then,  had  walked  mechanically  across  the 
yard,  saying  to  himself,  "She  belongs  to  another" ; 
and  adding,  as  he  saw  Richard,  "and  such  another." 
Gertrude  had  stood  at  her  window,  repeating,  under 
her  breath,  "He  belongs  to  himself,  himself  alone." 
And  as  if  this  was  not  enough,  when  misconceived, 
slighted,  wounded,  she  had  faced  about  to  her  old, 
passionless,  dutiful  past,  there  on  the  path  of  retreat 
to  this  asylum  Richard  Clare  had  arisen  to  forewarn 
her  that  she  should  find  no  peace  even  at  home. 
There  was  something  in  the  violent  impertinence  of 


114  A  Landscape  Painter 

his  appearance  at  this  moment  which  gave  her  a 
dreadful  feeling  that  fate  was  against  her.  More 
than  this.  There  entered  into  her  emotions  a  certain 
minute  particle  of  awe  of  the  man  whose  passion  was 
so  uncompromising.  She  felt  that  it  was  out  of 
place  any  longer  to  pity  him.  He  was  the  slave  of 
his  passion;  but  his  passion  was  strong.  In  her 
reaction  against  the  splendid  civility  of  Severn's 
silence,  (the  real  antithesis  of  which  would  have 
been  simply  the  perfect  courtesy  of  explicit  devo 
tion,)  she  found  herself  touching  with  pleasure  on 
the  fact  of  Richard's  brutality.  He  at  least  had 
ventured  to  insult  her.  He  had  loved  her  enough  to 
forget  himself.  He  had  dared  to  make  himself 
odious  in  her  eyes,  because  he  had  cast  away  his 
sanity.  What  cared  he  for  the  impression  he  made  ? 
He  cared  only  for  the  impression  he  received.  The 
violence  of  this  reaction,  however,  was  the  measure 
of  its  duration.  It  was  impossible  that  she  should 
walk  backward  so  fast  without  stumbling.  Brought 
to  her  senses  by  this  accident,  she  became  aware  that 
her  judgment  was  missing.  She  smiled  to  herself  as 
she  reflected  that  it  had  been  taking  holiday  for  a 
whole  afternoon.  "Richard  was  right,"  she  said 
to  herself.  "I  am  no  fool.  I  can't  be  a  fool  if  I 
try.  I'm  too  thoroughly  my  father's  daughter  for 
that.  I  love  that  man,  but  I  love  myself  better.  Of 
course,  then,  I  don't  deserve  to  have  him.  If  I  loved 


Poor  Richard  115 


him  in  a  way  to  merit  his  love,  I  would  sit  down  this 
moment  and  write  him  a  note  telling  him  that  if 
he  does  not  come  back  to  me,  I  shall  die.  But  I 
shall  neither  write  the  note  nor  die.  I  shall  live  and 
grow  stout,  and  look  after  my  chickens  and  my 
flowers  and  my  colts,  and  thank  the  Lord  in  my  old 
age  that  I  have  never  done  anything  unwomanly. 
Well !  I'm  as  He  made  me.  Whether  I  can  deceive 
others,  I  know  not;  but  I  certainly  can't  deceive 
myself.  I'm  quite  as  sharp  as  Gertrude  Whittaker; 
and  this  it  is  that  has  kept  me  from  making  a  fool 
of  myself  and  writing  to  poor  Richard  the  note  that 
I  wouldn't  write  to  Captain  Severn.  I  needed  to 
fancy  myself  wronged.  I  suffer  so  little !  I  needed 
a  sensation !  So,  shrewd  Yankee  that  I  am,  I  thought 
I  would  get  one  cheaply  by  taking  up  that  unhappy 
boy!  Heaven  preserve  me  from  the  heroics,  espe 
cially  the  economical  heroics !  The  one  heroic  course 
possible,  I  decline.  What,  then,  have  I  to  complain 
of?  Must  I  tear  my  hair  because  a  man  of  taste 
has  resisted  my  unspeakable  charms  ?  To  be  charm 
ing,  you  must  be  charmed  yourself,  or  at  least  you 
must  be  able  to  be  charmed:  and  that  apparently 
I'm  not.  I  didn't  love  him,  or  he  would  have  known 
it.  Love  gets  love,  and  no-love  gets  none." 

But  at  this  point  of  her  meditations  Gertrude 
almost  broke  down.  She  felt  that  she  was  assigning 
herself  but  a  dreary  future.  Never  to  be  loved  but 


116 A  Landscape  Painter 

by  such  a  one  as  Richard  Clare  was  a  cheerless 
prospect;  for  it  was  identical  with  an  eternal  spin- 
sterhood.  "Am  I,  then/'  she  exclaimed,  quite  as 
passionately  as  a  woman  need  do, — "am  I,  then,  cut 
off  from  a  woman's  dearest  joys?  What  blas 
phemous  nonsense !  One  thing  is  plain :  I  am  made 
to  be  a  mother;  the  wife  may  take  care  of  herself. 
I  am  made  to  be  a  wife ;  the  mistress  may  take  care 
of  herstlL  I  am  in  the  Lord's  hands,"  added  the 
poor  girl,  who,  whether  or  no  she  could  forget  her 
self  in  an  earthly  love,  had  at  all  events  this  mark 
of  a  spontaneous  nature,  that  she  could  forget  her 
self  in  a  heavenly  one.  But  in  the  midst  of  her 
pious  emotion,  she  was  unable  to  subdue  her  con 
science.  It  smote  her  heavily  for  her  meditated 
falsity  to  Richard,  for  her  miserable  readiness  to 
succumb  to  the  strong  temptation  to  seek  a  momen 
tary  resting-place  in  his  gaping  heart.  She  recoiled 
from  this  thought  as  from  an  act  cruel  and  immoral. 
Was  Richard's  heart  the  place  for  her  now,  any 
more  than  it  had  been  a  month  before?  Was  she 
to  apply  for  comfort  where  she  would  not  apply  for 
counsel  ?  Was  she  to  drown  her  decent  sorrows  and 
regrets  in  a  base,  a  dishonest,  an  extemporized  pas 
sion  ?  Having  done  the  young  man  so  bitter  a  wrong 
in  intention,  nothing  would  appease  her  magnani 
mous  remorse  (as  time  went  on)  but  to'  repair  it  in 
fact.  She  went  so  far  as  keenly  to  regret  the  harsh 


Poor  Richard  117 


words  she  had  cast  upon  him  in  the  conservatory. 
He  had  been  insolent  and  unmannerly;  but  he  had 
an  excuse.  Much  should  be  forgiven  him,  for  he 
loved  much.  Even  now  that  Gertrude  had  imposed 
upon  her  feelings  a  sterner  regimen  than  ever,  she 
could  not  defend  herself  from  a  sweet  and  senti 
mental  thrill — a  thrill  in  which,  as  we  have  inti 
mated,  there  was  something  of  a  tremor — at  the 
recollection  of  his  strident  accents  and  his  angry 
eyes.  It  was  yet  far  from  her  heart  to  desire  a 
renewal,  however  brief,  of  this  exhibition.  She 
wished  simply  to  efface  from  the  young  man's  mor 
bid  soul  the  impression  of  a  real  contempt;  for  she 
knew — or  she  thought  that  she  knew — that  against 
such  an  impression  he  was  capable  of  taking  the 
most  fatal  and  inconsiderate  comfort. 

Before  many  mornings  had  passed,  accordingly, 
she  had  a  horse  saddled,  and,  dispensing  with  attend 
ance,  she  rode  rapidly  over  to  his  farm.  The  house 
door  and  half  the  windows  stood  open;  but  no  an 
swer  came  to  her  repeated  summons.  She  made  her 
way  to  the  rear  of  the  house,  to  the  barn-yard,  thinly 
tenanted  by  a  few  common  fowl,  and  across  the  yard 
to  a  road  which  skirted  its  lower  extremity  and 
was  accessible  by  an  open  gate.  No  human  figure 
was  in  sight ;  nothing  was  visible  in  the  hot  stillness 
but  the  scattered  and  ripening  crops,  over  which,  in 
spite  of  her  nervous  solicitude,  Miss  Whittaker  cast 


118 A  Landscape  Painter 

the  glance  of  a  connoisseur.  A  great  uneasiness 
filled  her  mind  as  she  measured  the  rich  domain 
apparently  deserted  of  its  young  master,  and  re 
flected  that  she  perhaps  was  the  cause  of  its  aban 
donment.  Ah,  where  was  Richard  ?  As  she  looked 
and  listened  in  vain,  her  heart  rose  to  her  throat, 
and  she  felt  herself  on  the  point  of  calling  all  too 
wistfully  upon  his  name.  But  her  voice  was  stayed 
by  the  sound  of  a  heavy  rumble,  as  of  cart-wheels, 
beyond  a  turn  in  the  road.  She  touched  up  her  horse 
and  cantered  along  until  she  reached  the  turn.  A 
great  four-wheeled  cart,  laden  with  masses  of  newly 
broken  stone,  and  drawn  by  four  oxen,  was  slowly 
advancing  towards  her.  Beside  it,  patiently  cracking 
his  whip  and  shouting  monotonously,  walked  a 
young  man  in  a  slouched  hat  and  a  red  shirt,  with 
his  trousers  thrust  into  his  dusty  boots.  It  was  Rich 
ard.  As  he  saw  Gertrude,  he  halted  a  moment, 
amazed,  and  then  advanced,  flicking  the  air  with  his 
whip.  Gertrude's  heart  went  out  towards  him  in  a 
silent  Thank  God !  Her  next  reflection  was  that  he 
had  never  looked  so  well.  The  truth  is,  that,  in  this 
rough  adjustment,  the  native  barbarian  was  duly 
represented.  His  face  and  neck  were  browned  by  a 
week  in  the  fields,  his  eye  was  clear,  his  step  seemed 
to  have  learned  a  certain  manly  dignity  from  its 
attendance  on  the  heavy  bestial  tramp.  Gertrude, 
as  he  reached  her  side,  pulled  up  her  horse  and  held 


Poor  Richard  119 


out  her  gloved  fingers  to  his  brown  dusty  hand.  He 
took  them,  looked  for  a  moment  into  her  face,  and 
for  the  second  time  raised  them  to  his  lips. 

"Excuse  my  glove,"  she  said,  with  a  little  smile. 

"Excuse  mine,"  he  answered,  exhibiting  his  sun 
burnt,  work-stained  hand. 

"Richard,"  said  Gertrude,  "you  never  had  less 
need  of  excuse  in  your  life.  You  never  looked  half 
so  well." 

He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  a  moment.  "Why, 
you  have  forgiven  me!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes/'  said  Gertrude,  "I  have  forgiven  you, — 
both  you  and  myself.  We  both  of  us  behaved  very 
absurdly,  but  we  both  of  us  had  reason.  I  wish  you 
had  come  back." 

Richard  looked  about  him,  apparently  at  loss  for 
a  rejoinder.  "I  have  been  very  busy,"  he  said,  at 
last,  with  a  simplicity  of  tone  slightly  studied.  An 
odd  sense  of  dramatic  effect  prompted  him  to  say 
neither  more  nor  less. 

An  equally  delicate  instinct  forbade  Gertrude  to 
express  all  the  joy  which  this  assurance  gave  her. 
Excessive  joy  would  have  implied  undue  surprise; 
and  it  was  a  part  of  her  plan  frankly  to  expect  the 
best  things  of  her  companion.  "If  you  have  been 
busy,"  she  said,  "I  congratulate  you.  What  have 
you  been  doing?" 

"O,  a  hundred  things.     I  have  been  quarrying, 


120 A  Landscape  Painter 

and  draining,  and  clearing,  and  I  don't  know  what 
all.  I  thought  the  best  thing  was  just  to  put  my 
own  hands  to  it.  I  am  going  to  make  a  stone  fence 
along  the  great  lot  on  the  hill  there.  Wallace  is  for 
ever  grumbling  about  his  boundaries.  I'll  fix  them 
once  for  all.  What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"I  am  laughing  at  certain  foolish  apprehensions 
that  I  have  been  indulging  in   for  a  week  past. 
You  are  wiser  than  I,  Richard.    I  have  no  imagina- 
Jion." 

"Do  you  mean  that  /  have?     I  haven't  enough 
to  guess  what  you  do  mean." 

"Why,  do  you  suppose,  have  I  come  over  this 
morning?" 

"Because  you  thought  I  was  sulking  on  account 
of  your  having  called  me  a  fool." 

"Sulking,  or  worse.  What  do  I  deserve  for  the 
wrong  I  have  done  you?" 

"You  have  done  me  no  wrong.  You  reasoned 
fairly  enough.  You  are  not  obliged  to  know  me 
better  than  I  know  myself.  It's  just  like  you  to  be 
ready  to  take  back  that  bad  word,  and  try  to  make 
yourself  believe  that  it  was  unjust.  But  it  was 
perfectly  just,  and  therefore  I  have  managed  to  bear 
it.  I  was  a  fool  at  that  moment, — a  stupid,  impu 
dent  fool.  I  don't  know  whether  that  man  had  been 
making  to  love  to  you  or  not.  But  you  had,  I  think, 
been  feeling  love  for  him, — you  looked  it;  I  should 


Poor  Richard  121 


have  been  less  than  a  man,  I  should  be  unworthy  of 
your — your  affection,  if  I  had  failed  to  see  it.  I 
did  see  it, — I  saw  it  as  clearly  as  I  see  those  oxen 
now;  and  yet  I  bounced  in  with  my  own  ill-timed 
claims.  To  do  so  was  to  be  a  fool.  To  have  been 
other  than  a.  fool  would  have  been  to  have  waited, 
to  have  backed  out,  to  have  bitten  my  tongue  off 
before  I  spoke,  to  have  done  anything  but  what  I 
did.  I  have  no  right  to  claim  you,  Gertrude,  until  I 
can  woo  you  better  than  that.  It  was  the  most 
fortunate  thing  in  the  world  that  you  spoke  as  you 
did;  it  was  even  kind.  It  saved  me  all  the  misery 
of  groping  about  for  a  starting-point.  Not  to  have 
spoken  as  you  did  would  have  been  to  fail  of  justice ; 
and  then,  probably,  I  should  have  sulked,  or,  as  you 
very  considerately  say,  done  worse.  I  had  made  a 
false  move  in  the  game,  and  the  only  thing  to  do  was 
to  repair  it.  But  you  were  not  obliged  to  know  that 
I  would  so  readily  admit  my  move  to  have  been 
false.  Whenever  I  have  made  a  fool  of  myself 
before,  I  have  been  for  sticking  it  out,  and  trying 
to  turn  all  mankind — that  is,  you — into  a  fool  too, 
so  that  I  shouldn't  be  an  exception.  But  this  time, 
I  think,  I  had  a  kind  of  inspiration.  I  felt  that  my 
case  was  desperate.  I  felt  that  if  I  adopted  my  folly 
now  I  adopted  it  forever.  The  other  day  I  met  a 
man  who  had  just  come  home  from  Europe,  and 
who  spent  last  summer  in  Switzerland.  He  was 


122 A  Landscape  Painter 

telling  me  about  the  mountain-climbing  over  there, 
— how  they  get  over  the  glaciers,  and  all  that.  He 
said  that  you  sometimes  came  upon  great  slippery, 
steep,  snow-covered  slopes  that  end  short  off  in  a 
precipice,  and  that  if  you  stumble  or  lose  your  foot 
ing  as  you  cross  them  horizontally,  why  you  go 
shooting  down,  and  you're  gone ;  that  is,  but  for  one 
little  dodge.  You  have  a  long  walking-pole  with  a 
sharp  end,  you  know,  and  as  you  feel  yourself  slid 
ing, — it's  as  likely  as  not  to  be  in  a  sitting  posture, 
— you  just  take  this  and  ram  it  into  the  snow  before 
you,  and  there  you  are,  stopped.  The  thing  is,  of 
course,  to  drive  it  in  far  enough,  so  that  it  won't 
yield  or  break;  and  in  any  case  it  hurts  infernally 
to  come  whizzing  down  upon  this  upright  pole.  But 
the  interruption  gives  you  time  to  pick  yourself  up. 
Well,  so  it  was  with  me  the  other  day.  I  stumbled 
and  fell;  I  slipped,  and  was  whizzing  downward; 
but  I  just  drove  in  my  pole  and  pulled  up  short. 
It  nearly  tore  me  in  two;  but  it  saved  my  life." 
Richard  made  this  speech  with  one  hand  leaning  on 
the  neck  of  Gertrude's  horse,  and  the  other  on  his 
own  side,  and  with  his  head  slightly  thrown  back 
and  his  eyes  on  hers.  She  had  sat  quietly  in  her 
saddle,  returning  his  gaze.  He  had  spoken  slowly 
and  deliberately ;  but  without  hesitation  and  without 
heat.  'This  is  not  romance,"  thought  Gertrude, 
"it's  reality."  And  this  feeling  it  was  that  dictated 


Poor  Richard 123 

her  reply,  divesting  it  of  romance  so  effectually  as 
almost  to  make  it  sound  trivial. 

"It  was  fortunate  you  had  a  walking-pole,"  she 
said. 

"I  shall  never  travel  without  one  again." 

"Never,  at  least,"  smiled  Gertrude,  "with  a  com 
panion  who  has  the  bad  habit  of  pushing  you  off 
the  path." 

"Oh,  you  may  push  all  you  like,"  said  Richard.  "I 
give  you  leave.  But  isn't  this  enough  about  my 
self?" 

"That's  as  you  think." 

"Well,  it's  all  I  have  to  say  for  the  present,  except 
that  I  am  prodigiously  glad  to  see  you,  and  that  of 
course  you  will  stay  awhile." 

"But  you  have  your  work  to  do." 

"Dear  me,  never  you  mind  my  work.  I've  earned 
my  dinner  this  morning,  if  you  have  no  objection: 
and  I  propose  to  share  it  with  you.  So  we  will  go 
back  to  the  house."  He  turned  her  horse's  head 
about,  started  up  his  oxen  with  his  voice,  and  walked 
along  beside  her  on  the  grassy  roadside,  with  one 
hand  in  the  horse's  mane,  and  the  other  swinging 
his  whip. 

Before  they  reached  the  yard-gate,  Gertrude  had 
revolved  his  speech.  "Enough  about  himself,"  she 
said,  silently  echoing  his  words.  "Yes,  Heaven  be 
praised,  it  is  about  himself.  I  am  but  a  means  in 


124 A  Landscape  Painter 

this  matter, — he  himself,  his  own  character,  his  own 
happiness,  is  the  end."  Under  this  conviction  it 
seemed  to  her  that  her  part  was  appreciably  simpli 
fied.  Richard  was  learning  wisdom  and  self-con 
trol,  and  to  exercise  his  reason.  Such  was  the  suit 
that  he  was  destined  to  gain.  Her  duty  was  as 
far  as  possible  to  remain  passive,  and  not  to 
interfere  with  the  working  of  the  gods  who  had 
selected  her  as  the  instrument  of  their  prodigy. 
As  they  reached  the  gate,  Richard  made  a  trum 
pet  of  his  hands,  and  sent  a  ringing  summons 
into  the  fields;  whereupon  a  farm-boy  approached, 
and,  with  an  undisguised  stare  of  amazement  at 
Gertrude,  took  charge  of  his  master's  team.  Ger 
trude  rode  up  to  the  door-step,  where  her  host 
assisted  her  to  dismount,  and  bade  her  go  in  and 
make  herself  at  home,  while  he  busied  himself  with 
the  bestowal  of  her  horse.  She  found  that,  in  her 
absence,  the  old  woman  who  administered  her 
friend's  household  had  reappeared,  and  had  laid  out 
the  preparations  for  his  mid-day  meal.  By  the  time 
he  returned,  with  his  face  and  head  shining  from  a 
fresh  ablution,  and  his  shirt-sleeves  decently  con 
cealed  by  a  coat,  Gertrude  had  apparently  won  the 
complete  confidence  of  the  good  wife. 

Gertrude  doffed  her  hat,  and  tucked  up  her  riding- 
skirt,  and  sat  down  to  a  tete-a-tete  over  Richard's 
crumpled  table-cloth.  The  young  man  played  the 


Poor  Richard  125 


host  very  soberly  and  naturally ;  and  Gertrude  hardly 
knew  whether  to  augur  from  his  perfect  self-posses 
sion  that  her  star  was  already  on  the  wane,  or  that  it 
had  waxed  into  a  steadfast  and  eternal  sun.  The 
solution  of  her  doubts  was  not  far  to  seek;  Richard 
was  absolutely  at  his  ease  in  her  presence.  He  had 
told  her,  indeed,  that  she  intoxicated  him ;  and  truly, 
in  those  moments  when  she  was  compelled  to  oppose 
her  dewy  eloquence  to  his  fervid  importunities,  her 
whole  presence  seemed  to  him  to  exhale  a  singularly 
potent  sweetness.  He  had  told  her  that  she  was  an 
enchantress,  and  this  assertion,  too,  had  its  measure 
of  truth.  But  her  spell  was  a  steady  one ;  it  sprang 
not  from  her  beauty,  her  wit,  her  figure, — it  sprang 
from  her  character.  When  she  found  herself 
aroused  to  appeal  or  to  resistance,  Richard's  pulses 
were  quickened  to  what  he  had  called  intoxication, 
not  by  her  smiles,  her  gestures,  her  glances,  or  any 
accession  of  that  material  beauty  which  she  did  not 
possess,  but  by  a  generous  sense  of  her  virtues  in 
action.  In  other  words,  Gertrude  exercised  the  mag 
nificent  power  of  making  her  lover  forget  her  face. 
Agreeably  to  this  fact,  his  habitual  feeling  in  her 
presence  was  one  of  deep  repose, — a  sensation  not 
unlike  that  which  in  the  early  afternoon,  as  he 
lounged  in  his  orchard  with  a  pipe,  he  derived  from 
the  sight  of  the  hot  and  vaporous  hills.  He  was  in 
nocent,  then,  of  that  delicious  trouble  which  Ger- 


126 A  Landscape  Painter 

t rude's  thoughts  had  touched  upon  as  a  not  un 
natural  result  of  her  visit,  and  which  another 
woman's  fancy  would  perhaps  have  dwelt  upon  as 
an  indispensable  proof  of  its  success.  "Porphyro 
grew  faint,"  the  poet  assures  us,  as  he  stood  in 
Madeline's  chamber  on  Saint  Agnes'  eve.  But  Rich 
ard  did  not  in  the  least  grow  faint  now  that  his 
mistress  was  actually  filling  his  musty  old  room  with 
her  voice,  her  touch,  her  looks ;  that  she  was  sitting 
in  his  unfrequented  chairs,  trailing  her  skirt  over 
his  faded  carpet,  casting  her  perverted  image  upon 
his  mirror,  and  breaking  his  daily  bread.  He  was 
not  fluttered  when  he  sat  at  her  well-served  table, 
and  trod  her  muffled  floors.  Why,  then,  should  he 
be  fluttered  now  ?  Gertrude  was  herself  in  all  places, 
and  (once  granted  that  she  was  at  peace)  to  be  at 
her  side  was  to  drink  peace  as  fully  in  one  place  as 
in  another. 

Richard  accordingly  ate  a  great  working-day  din 
ner  in  Gertrude's  despite,  and  she  ate  a  small  one  for 
his  sake.  She  asked  questions  moreover,  and  offered 
counsel  with  most  sisterly  freedom.  She  deplored 
the  rents  in  his  table-cloth,  and  the  dismemberments 
of  his  furniture;  and,  although  by  no  means  ab 
surdly  fastidious  in  the  matter  of  household  ele 
gance,  she  could  not  but  think  that  Richard  would 
be  a  happier  and  a  better  man  if  he  were  a  little 
more  comfortable.  She  forbore,  however,  to  criti- 


Poor  Richard  127 


cise  the  poverty  of  his  entourage,  for  she  felt  that 
the  obvious  answer  was,  that  such  a  state  of  things 
was  the  penalty  of  his  living  alone;  and  it  was  de 
sirable,  under  the  circumstances,  that  this  idea 
should  remain  implied. 

When  at  last  Gertrude  began  to  bethink  herself 
of  going,  Richard  broke  a  long  silence  by  the  fol 
lowing  question :  "Gertrude,  do  you  love  that  man  ?" 

"Richard,"  she  answered,  "I  refused  to  tell  you 
before,  because  you  asked  the  question  as  a  right. 
Of  course  you  do  so  no  longer.  No.  I  do  not  love 
him.  I  have  been  near  it, — but  I  have  missed  it. 
And  now  good-by." 

For  a  week  after  her  visit,  Richard  worked  as 
bravely  and  steadily  as  he  had  done  before  it.  But 
one  morning  he  woke  up  lifeless,  morally  speaking. 
His  strength  had  suddenly  left  him.  He  had  been 
straining  his  faith  in  himself  to  a  prodigious  tension, 
and  the  chord  had  suddenly  snapped.  In  the  hope 
that  Gertrude's  tender  fingers  might  repair  it,  he 
rode  over  to  her  towards  evening.  On  his  way 
through  the  village,  he  found  people  gathered  in 
knots,  reading  fresh  copies  of  the  Boston  newspa 
pers  over  each  other's  shoulders,  and  learned  that 
tidings  had  just  come  of  a  great  battle  in  Virginia, 
which  was  also  a  great  defeat.  He  procured  a  copy 
of  the  paper  from  a  man  who  had  read  it  out,  and 
made  haste  to  Gertrude's  dwelling. 


128 A  Landscape  Painter 

Gertrude  received  his  story  with  those  passionate 
imprecations  and  regrets  which  were  then  in  fash 
ion.  Before  long,  Major  Luttrel  presented  himself, 
and  for  half  an  hour  there  was  no  talk  but  about  the 
battle.  The  talk,  however,  was  chiefly  between  Ger 
trude  and  the  Major,  who  found  considerable 
ground  for  difference,  she  being  a  great  radical  and 
he  a  decided  conservative.  Richard  sat  by,  listening 
apparently,  but  with  the  appearance  of  one  to  whom 
the  matter  of  the  discourse  was  of  much  less  inter 
est  than  the  manner  of  those  engaged  in  it.  At  last, 
when  tea  was  announced,  Gertrude  told  her  friends, 
very  frankly,  that  she  would  not  invite  them  to  re 
main, — that  her  heart  was  too  heavy  with  her  coun 
try's  woes,  and  with  the  thought  of  so  great  a  butch 
ery,  to  allow  her  to  play  the  hostess, — and  that,  in 
short,  she  was  in  the  humor  to  be  alone.  Of  course 
there  was  nothing  for  the  gentlemen  but  to  obey ;  but 
Richard  went  out  cursing  the  law,  under  which,  in 
the  hour  of  his  mistress'  sorrow,  his  company  was 
a  burden  and  not  a  relief.  He  watched  in  vain,  as 
he  bade  her  farewell,  for  some  little  sign  that  she 
would  fain  have  him  stay,  but  that  as  she  wished  to 
get  rid  of  his  companion  civility  demanded  that  she 
should  dismiss  them  both.  No  such  sign  was  forth 
coming,  for  the  simple  reason  that  Gertrude  was 
sensible  of  no  conflict  between  her  desires.  The 
men  mounted  their  horses  in  silence,  and  rode  slowly 


Poor  Richard 


along  the  lane  which  led  from  Miss  Whittaker's 
stables  to  the  high-road.  As  they  approached  the 
top  of  the  lane,  they  perceived  in  the  twilight  3 
mounted  figure  coming  towards  them.  Richard's 
heart  began  to  beat  with  an  angry  foreboding,  which 
was  confirmed  as  the  rider  drew  near  and  disclosed 
Captain  Severn's  features.  Major  Luttrel  and  he, 
being  bound  in  courtesy  to  a  brief  greeting,  pulled 
up  their  horses ;  and  as  an  attempt  to  pass  them  in 
narrow  quarters  would  have  been  a  greater  incivility 
than  even  Richard  was  prepared  to  commit,  he  like 
wise  halted. 

"This  is  ugly  news,  isn't  it?"  said  Severn.  "It 
has  determined  me  to  go  back  to-morrow." 

"Go  back  where?"  asked  Richard. 

"To  my  regiment." 

"Are  you  well  enough?"  asked  Major  Luttrel. 
"How  is  that  wound  ?" 

"It's  so  much  better  that  I  believe  it  can  finish  get 
ting  well  down  there  as  easily  as  here.  Good-by, 
Major.  I  hope  we  shall  meet  again."  And  he  shook 
hands  with  Major  Luttrel.  "Good  by,  Mr.  Clare." 
And,  somewhat  to  Richard's  surprise,  he  stretched 
over  and  held  out  his  hand  to  him. 

Richard  felt  that  it  was  tremulous,  and,  looking 
hard  into  his  face,  he  thought  it  wore  a  certain  un 
wonted  look  of  excitement.  And  then  his  fancy 
coursed  back  to  Gertrude,  sitting  where  he  had  left 


130  A  Landscape  Painter 

her,  in  the  sentimental  twilight,  alone  with  her  heavy 
heart.  With  a  word,  he  reflected,  a  single  little 
word,  a  look,  a  motion,  this  happy  man  whose  hand 
I  hold  can  heal  her  sorrows.  "Oh !"  cried  Richard, 
"that  by  this  hand  I  might  hold  him  fast  for 
ever!" 

It  seemed  to  the  Captain  that  Richard's  grasp  was 
needlessly  protracted  and  severe.  "What  a  grip  the 
poor  fellow  has!"  he  thought.  "Good-by,"  he  re 
peated  aloud,  disengaging  himself. 

"Good-by,"  said  Richard.  And  then  he  added, 
he  hardly  knew  why,  "Are  you  going  to  bid  good-by 
to  Miss  Whittaker?" 

"Yes.     Isn't  she  at  home?" 

Whether  Richard  really  paused  or  not  before  he 
answered,  he  never  knew.  There  suddenly  arose 
such  a  tumult  in  his  bosom  that  it  seemed  to  him 
several  moments  before  he  became  conscious  of  his 
reply.  But  it  is  probable  that  to  Severn  it  came 
only  too  soon. 

"No,"  said  Richard;  "she's  not  at  home.  We 
have  just  been  calling."  As  he  spoke,  he  shot  a 
glance  at  his  companion,  armed  with  defiance  of  his 
impending  denial.  But  the  Major  just  met  his 
glance  and  then  dropped  his  eyes.  This  slight  mo 
tion  was  a  horrible  revelation.  He  had  served  the 
Major,  too. 

"Ah?    I'm  sorry,"  said  Severn,  slacking  his  rein, 


Poor  Richard  131 


— "I'm  sorry."  And  from  his  saddle  he  looked 
down  toward  the  house  more  longingly  and  regret 
fully  than  he  knew. 

Richard  felt  himself  turning  from  pale  to  con 
suming  crimson.  There  was  a  simple  sincerity  in 
Severn's  words  which  was  almost  irresistible.  For 
a  moment  he  felt  like  shouting  out  a  loud  denial  of 
his  falsehood :  "She  is  there !  she's  alone  and  in  tears, 
awaiting  you.  Go  to  her — and  be  damned!"  But 
before  he  could  gather  his  words  into  his  throat,  they 
were  arrested  by  Major  Luttrel's  cool,  clear  voice, 
which,  in  its  calmness,  seemed  to  cast  scorn  upon 
his  weakness. 

"Captain,"  said  the  Major,  "I  shall  be  very  happy 
to -take  charge  of  your  farewell." 

"Thank  you,  Major.  Pray  do.  Say  how  ex 
tremely  sorry  I  was.  Good  by  again."  And  Cap 
tain  Severn  hastily  turned  his  horse  about,  gave  him 
his  spurs,  and  galloped  away,  leaving  his  friends 
standing  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  As  the 
sound  of  his  retreat  expired,  Richard,  in  spite  of 
himself,  drew  a  long  breath.  He  sat  motionless  in 
the  saddle,  hanging  his  head. 

"Mr.  Clare,"  said  the  Major,  at  last,  "that  was 
very  cleverly  done." 

Richard  looked  up.  "I  never  told  a  lie  before," 
said  he. 

"Upon  my  soul,  then,  you  did  it  uncommonly  well. 


132 A  Landscape  Painter 

You  did  it  so  well  I  almost  believed  you.    No  won 
der  that  Severn  did." 

Richard  was  silent.  Then  suddenly  he  broke  out, 
"In  God's  name,  sir,  why  don't  you  call  me  a  black 
guard  ?  I've  done  a  beastly  act !" 

"O,  come,"  said  the  Major,  "you  needn't  mind 
that,  with  me.  We'll  consider  that  said.  I  feel 
bound  to  let  you  know  that  I'm  very,  very  much 
obliged  to  you.  If  you  hadn't  spoken,  how  do  you 
know  but  that  I  might?" 

"If  you  had,  I  would  have  given  you  the  lie, 
square  in  your  teeth." 

"Would  you,  indeed?  It's  very  fortunate,  then, 
I  held  my  tongue.  If  you  will  have  it  so,  I  won't 
deny  that  your  little  improvisation  sounded  very 
ugly.  I'm  devilish  glad  I  didn't  make  it." 

Richard  felt  his  wit  sharpened  by  a  most  unholy 
scorn, — a  scorn  far  greater  for  his  companion  than 
for  himself.  "I  am  glad  to  hear  that  it  did  sound 
ugly,"  he  said.  "To  me,  it  seemed  beautiful,  holy, 
and  just.  For  the  space  of  a  moment,  it  seemed 
absolutely  right  that  I  should  say  what  I  did.  But 
you  saw  the  lie  in  its  horrid  nakedness,  and  yet  you 
let  it  pass.  You  have  no  excuse." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  You  are  immensely  inge 
nious,  but  you  are  immensely  wrong.  Are  you  going 
to  make  out  that  I  am  the  guilty  party?  Upon  my 
word,  you're  a  cool  hand.  I  have  an  excuse.  I  have 


Poor  Richard  133 


the  excuse  of  being  interested  in  Miss  Whittaker's 
remaining  unengaged." 

"So  I  suppose.  But  you  don't  love  her.  Other- 
Major  Luttrel  laid  his  hand  on  Richard's  bridle. 
"Mr.  Clare,"  said  he,  "I  have  no  wish  to  talk  meta 
physics  over  this  matter.  You  had  better  say  no 
more.  I  know  that  your  feelings  are  not  of  an  en 
viable  kind,  and  I  am  therefore  prepared  to  be  good- 
natured  with  you.  But  you  must  be  civil  yourself. 
You  have  done  a  shabby  deed ;  you  are  ashamed  of 
it,  and  you  wish  to  shift  the  responsibility  upon  me, 
which  is  more  shabby  still.  My  advice  is,  that  you 
behave  like  a  man  of  spirit,  and  swallow  your  ap 
prehensions.  I  trust  that  you  are  not  going  to  make 
a  fool  of  yourself  by  any  apology  or  retraction  in 
any  quarter.  As  for  its  having  seemed  holy  and 
just  to  do  what  you  did,  that  is  mere  bosh.  A  lie  is 
a  lie,  and  as  such  is  often  excusable.  As  anything 
else, — as  a  thing  beautiful,  holy,  or  just, — it's  quite 
inexcusable.  Yours  was  a  lie  to  you,  and  a  lie  to 
me.  It  serves  me,  and  I  accept  it.  I  suppose  you 
understand  me.  I  adopt  it.  You  don't  suppose  it 
was  because  I  was  frightened  by  those  big  black 
eyes  of  yours  that  I  held  my  tongue.  As  for  my 
loving  or  not  loving  Miss  Whittaker,  I  have  no 
report  to  make  to  you  about  it.  I  will  simply  say 
that  I  intend,  if  possible  to  marry  her." 


134 A  ^Landscape  Painter    

"She'll  not  have  you.  She'll  never  marry  a  cold 
blooded  rascal." 

"I  think  she'll  prefer  him  to  a  hot-blooded  one. 
Do  you  want  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  me?  Do  you 
want  to  make  me  lose  my  temper?  I  shall  refuse 
you  that  satisfaction.  You  have  been  a  coward,  and 
you  want  to  frighten  some  one  before  you  go  to  bed 
to  make  up  for  it.  Strike  me,  and  I'll  strike  you  in 
self-defence,  but  I'm  not  going  to  mind  your  talk. 
Have  you  anything  to  say?  No?  Well,  then,  good 
evening."  And  Major  Luttrel  started  away. 

It  was  with  rage  that  Richard  was  dumb.  Had 
he  been  but  a  cat's-paw  after  all?  Heaven  forbid! 
He  sat  irresolute  for  an  instant,  and  then  turned 
suddenly  and  cantered  back  to  Gertrude's  gate. 
Here  he  stopped  again ;  but  after  a  short  pause  he 
went  in  over  the  gravel  with  a  fast-beating  heart. 
O,  if  Luttrel  were  but  there  to  see  him!  For  a 
moment  he  fancied  he  heard  the  sound  of  the  Ma 
jor's  returning  steps.  If  he  would  only  come  and 
find  him  at  confession !  It  would  be  so  easy  to  con 
fess  before  him!  He  went  along  beside  the  house 
to  the  front,  and  stopped  beneath  the  open  draw 
ing-room  window. 

"Gertrude!"  he  cried  softly,  from  his  saddle. 

Gertrude  immediately  appeared.  "You,  Rich 
ard  !"  she  exclaimed. 

Her  voice  was  neither  harsh  nor  sweet;  but  her 


Poor  Richard  135 


words  and  her  intonation  recalled  vividly  to  Rich 
ard's  mind  the  scene  in  the  conservatory.  He  fan 
cied  them  keenly  expressive  of  disappointment.  He 
was  invaded  by  a  mischievous  conviction  that  she 
had  been  expecting  Captain  Severn,  or  that  at  the 
least  she  had  mistaken  his  voice  for  the  Captain's. 
The  truth  is  that  she  had  half  fancied  it  might  be, — 
Richard's  call  having  been  little  more  than  a  loud 
whisper.  The  young  man  sat  looking  up  at  her, 
silent. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked.  "Can  I  do  any 
thing  for  you  ?" 

Richard  was  not  destined  to  do  his  duty  that  even 
ing.  A  certain  infinitesimal  dryness  of  tone  on  Ger 
trude's  part  was  the  inevitable  result  of  her  finding 
that  that  whispered  summons  came  only  from  Rich 
ard.  She  was  preoccupied.  Captain  Severn  had 
told  her  a  fortnight  before,  that,  in  case  of  news  of 
a  defeat,  he  should  not  await  the  expiration  of  his 
leave  of  absence  to  return.  Such  news  had  now 
come,  and  her  inference  was  that  her  friend  would 
immediately  take  his  departure.  She  could  not  but 
suppose  that  he  would  come  and  bid  her  farewell, 
and  what  might  not  be  the  incidents,  the  results,  of 
such  a  visit?  To  tell  the  whole  truth,  it  was  under 
the  pressure  of  these  reflections  that,  twenty  min 
utes  before,  Gertrude  had  dismissed  our  two  gentle 
men.  That  this  long  story  should  be  told  in  the 


136 A  Landscape  Painter 

dozen  words  with  which  she  greeted  Richard,  will 
seem  unnatural  to  the  disinterested  reader.  But  in 
those  words,  poor  Richard,  with  a  lover's  clairvoy 
ance,  read  it  at  a  single  glance.  The  same  resentful 
impulse,  the  same  sickening  of  the  heart,  that  he  had 
felt  in  the  conservatory,  took  possession  of  him  once 
more.  To  be  witness  of  Severn's  passion  for  Ger 
trude, — that  he  could  endure.  To  be  witness  of 
Gertrude's  passion  for  Severn, — against  that  obli 
gation  his  reason  rebelled. 

"What  is  it  you  wish,  Richard?"  Gertrude  re 
peated.  "Have  you  forgotten  anything?" 

"Nothing!  nothing!"  cried  the  young  man.  "It's 
no  matter !" 

He  gave  a  great  pull  at  his  bridle,  and  almost 
brought  his  horse  back  on  his  haunches,  and  then, 
wheeling  him  about  on  himself,  he  thrust  in  his  spurs 
and  galloped  out  of  the  gate. 

On  the  highway  he  came  upon  Major  Luttrel, 
who  stood  looking  down  the  lane. 

"I'm  going  to  the  Devil,  sir!"  cried  Richard. 
"Give  me  your  hand  on  it." 

Luttrel  held  out  his  hand.  "My  poor  young 
man,"  said  he,  "you're  out  of  your  head.  I'm  sorry 
for  you.  You  haven't  been  making  a  fool  of  your 
self?" 

"Yes,  a  damnable  fool  of  myself!" 

Luttrel  breathed  freely.     "You'd  better  go  home 


Poor  Richard  137 


and  go  to  bed,"  he  said.  "You'll  make  yourself  ill 
by  going  on  at  this  rate." 

"I — I'm  afraid  to  go  home,"  said  Richard,  in  a 
broken  voice.  "For  God's  sake,  come  with  me !" — 
and  the  wretched  fellow  burst  into  tears.  "I'm  too 
bad  for  any  company  but  yours,"  he  cried,  in  his 
sobs. 

The  Major  winced,  but  he  took  pity.  "Come, 
come,"  said  he,  "we'll  pull  through.  I'll  go  home 
with  you." 

They  rode  off  together.  That  night  Richard  went 
to  bed  miserably  drunk ;  although  Major  Luttrel  had 
left  him  at  ten  o'clock,  adjuring  him  to  drink  no 
more.  He  awoke  the  next  morning  in  a  violent 
fever;  and  before  evening  the  doctor,  whom  one  of 
his  hired  men  had  brought  to  his  bedside,  had  come 
and  looked  grave  and  pronounced  him  very  ill. 


PART    III 

IN  COUNTRY  districts,  where  life  is  quiet,  incidents 
do  duty  as  events ;  and  accordingly  Captain  Severn's 
sudden  departure  for  his  regiment  became  very  rap 
idly  known  among  Gertrude's  neighbors.  She  her 
self  heard  it  from  her  coachman,  who  had  heard  it 
in  the  village,  where  the  Captain  had  been  seen  to 
take  the  early  train.  She  received  the  news  calmly 
enough  to  outward  appearance,  but  a  great  tumult 
rose  and  died  in  her  breast.  He  had  gone  without 
a  word  of  farewell!  Perhaps  he  had  not  had  time 
to  call  upon  her.  But  bare  civility  would  have  dic 
tated  his  dropping  her  a  line  of  writing, — he  who 
must  have  read  in  her  eyes  the  feeling  which  her 
lips  refused  to  utter,  and  who  had  been  the  object  of 
her  tenderest  courtesy.  It  was  not  often  that  Ger 
trude  threw  back  into  her  friends'  teeth  their  ac 
ceptance  of  the  hospitality  which  it  had  been  placed 
in  her  power  to  offer  them;  but  if  she  now  mutely 
reproached  Captain  Severn  with  ingratitude,  it  was 

138 


Poor  Richard  139 


because  he  had  done  more  than  slight  her  material 
gifts :  he  had  slighted  that  constant  moral  force  with 
which  these  gifts  were  accompanied,  and  of  which 
they  were  but  the  rude  and  vulgar  token.  It  is  but 
natural  to  expect  that  our  dearest  friends  will  ac 
credit  us  with  our  deepest  feelings;  and  Gertrude 
had  constituted  Edmund  Severn  her  dearest  friend. 
She  had  not,  indeed,  asked  his  assent  to  this  ar 
rangement,  but  she  had  borne  it  out  by  a  subtile  de 
votion  which  she  felt  that  she  had  a  right  to  exact  of 
him  that  he  should  repay, — repay  by  letting  her 
know  that,  whether  it  was  lost  on  his  heart  or  not, 
it  was  at  least  not  lost  to  his  senses, — that,  if  he 
could  not  return  it,  he  could  at  least  remember  it. 
She  had  given  him  the  flower  of  her  womanly  ten 
derness,  and  when  his  moment  came,  he  had  turned 
from  her  without  a  look.  Gertrude  shed  no  tears. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  given  her  friend  tears 
enough,  and  that  to  expend  her  soul  in  weeping 
would  be  to  wrong  herself.  She  would  think  no 
more  of  Edmund  Severn.  He  should  be  as  little  to 
her  for  the  future  as  she  was  to  him. 

It  was  very  easy  to  make  this  resolution :  to  keep 
it,  Gertrude  found  another  matter.  She  could  not 
think  of  the  war,  she  could  not  talk  with  her  neigh 
bors  of  current  events,  she  could  not  take  up  a  news 
paper,  without  reverting  to  her  absent  friend.  She 
found  herself  constantly  harassed  with  the  appre- 


140 A  Landscape  Painter 

hension  that  he  had  not  allowed  himself  time  really 
to  recover,  and  that  a  fortnight's  exposure  would 
send  him  back  to  the  hospital.  At  last  it  occurred 
to  her  that  civility  required  that  she  should  make  a 
call  upon  Mrs.  Martin,  the  Captain's  sister;  and  a 
vague  impression  that  this  lady  might  be  the  deposi 
tary  of  some  farewell  message — perhaps  of  a  let 
ter — which  she  was  awaiting  her  convenience  to 
present,  led  her  at  once  to  undertake  this  social 
duty. 

The  carriage  which  had  been  ordered  for  her  pro 
jected  visit  was  at  the  door,  when,  within  a  week 
after  Severn's  departure,  Major  Luttrel  was  an 
nounced.  Gertrude  received  him  in  her  bonnet. 
His  first  care  was  to  present  Captain  Severn's 
adieus,  together  with  his  regrets  that  he  had  not  had 
time  to  discharge  them  in  person.  As  Luttrel  made 
his  speech,  he  watched  his  companion  narrowly,  and 
was  considerably  reassured  by  the  unflinching  com 
posure  with  which  she  listened  to  it.  The  turn  he 
had  given  to  Severn's  message  had  been  the  fruit 
of  much  mischievous  cogitation.  It  had  seemed  to 
him  that,  for  his  purposes,  the  assumption  of  a  hasty, 
and  as  it  were  mechanical,  allusion  to  Miss  Whit- 
taker,  was  more  serviceable  than  the  assumption  of 
no  allusion  at  all,  which  would  have  left  a  boundless 
void  for  the  exercise  of  Gertrude's  fancy.  And  he 
had  reasoned  well;  for  although  he  was  tempted  to 


Poor  Richard  141 


infer  from  her  calmness  that  his  shot  had  fallen 
short  of  the  mark,  yet,  in  spite  of  her  silent  and  al 
most  smiling  assent  to  his  words,  it  had  made  but 
one  bound  to  her  heart.  Before  many  minutes,  she 
felt  that  those  words  had  done  her  a  world  of  good. 
"He  had  not  had  time !"  Indeed,  as  she  took  to  her 
self  their  full  expression  of  perfect  indifference,  she 
felt  that  her  hard,  forced  smile  was  broadening  into 
the  sign  of  a  lively  gratitude  to  the  Major. 

Major  Luttrel  had  still  another  task  to  perform. 
He  had  spent  half  an  hour  on  the  preceding  day  at 
Richard's  bedside,  having  ridden  over  to  the  farm, 
in  ignorance  of  his  illness,  to  see  how  matters  stood 
with  him.  The  reader  will  already  have  surmised 
that  the  Major  was  not  pre-eminently  a  man  of  con 
science  :  he  will,  therefore,  be  the  less  surprised  and 
shocked  to  hear  that  the  sight  of  the  poor  young 
man,  prostrate,  fevered,  and  delirious,  and  to  all  ap 
pearance  rapidly  growing  worse,  filled  him  with  an 
emotion  the  reverse  of  creditable.  In  plain  terms, 
he  was  very  glad  to  find  Richard  a  prisoner  in  bed. 
He  had  been  racking  his  brains  for  a  scheme  to  keep 
his  young  friend  out  of  the  way,  and  now,  to  his 
exceeding  satisfaction,  Nature  had  relieved  him  of 
this  troublesome  care.  If  Richard  was  condemned 
to  typhoid  fever,  which  his  symptoms  seemed  to 
indicate,  he  would  not,  granting  his  recovery,  be 
able  to  leave  his  room  within  a  month.  In  a  month, 


142 A  Landscape  Painter 

much  might  be  done ;  nay,  with  energy,  all  might  be 
done.  The  reader  has  been  all  but  directly  informed 
that  the  Major's  present  purpose  was  to  secure  Miss 
Whittaker's  hand.  He  was  poor,  and  he  was  am 
bitious,  and  he  was,  moreover,  so  well  advanced  in 
life — being  thirty-six  years  of  age — that  he  had  no 
heart  to  think  of  building  up  his  fortune  by  slow  de 
grees.  A  man  of  good  breeding,  too,  he  had  become 
sensible,  as  he  approached  middle  age  of  the  many 
advantages  of  a  luxurious  home.  He  had  accord 
ingly  decided  that  a  wealthy  marriage  would  most 
easily  unlock  the  gate  to  prosperity.  A  girl  of  a 
somewhat  lighter  calibre  than  Gertrude  would  have 
been  the  woman — we  cannot  say  of  his  heart;  but, 
as  he  very  generously  argued,  beggars  can't  be 
choosers.  Gertrude  was  a  woman  with  a  mind  of 
her  own;  but,  on  the  whole,  he  was  not  afraid  of 
her.  He  was  abundantly  prepared  to  do  his  duty.  He 
had,  of  course,  as  became  a  man  of  sense,  duly 
weighed  his  obstacles  against  his  advantages;  but 
an  impartial  scrutiny  had  found  the  latter  heavier 
in  the  balance.  The  only  serious  difficulty  in  his 
path  was  the  possibility  that,  on  hearing  of  Rich 
ard's  illness,  Gertrude,  with  her  confounded  benevo 
lence,  would  take  a  fancy  to  nurse  him  in  person, 
and  that,  in  the  course  of  her  ministrations,  his  de 
lirious  ramblings  would  force  upon  her  mind  the 
damning  story  of  the  deception  practised  upon  Cap- 


Poor  Richard  143 


tain  Severn.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  bravely 
to  face  this  risk.  As  for  that  other  fact,  which  many 
men  of  a  feebler  spirit  would  have  deemed  an  in 
vincible  obstacle,  Luttrel's  masterly  understanding 
had  immediately  converted  it  into  the  prime  agent 
of  success, — the  fact,  namely,  that  Gertrude's  heart 
was  preoccupied.  Such  knowledge  as  he  possessed 
of  the  relations  between  Miss  Whittaker  and  his 
brother  officer  he  had  gained  by  his  unaided  observa 
tions  and  his  silent  deductions.  These  had  been 
logical;  for,  on  the  whole,  his  knowledge  was  accu 
rate.  It  was  at  least  what  he  might  have  termed  a 
good  working  knowledge.  He  had  calculated  on  a 
passionate  reactionary  impulse  on  Gertrude's  part, 
consequent  on  Severn's  simulated  offence.  He  knew 
that,  in  a  generous  woman,  such  an  impulse,  if  left 
to  itself,  would  not  go  very  far.  But  on  this  point 
it  was  that  his  policy  bore.  He  would  not  leave  it 
to  itself:  fie  would  take  it  gently  into  his  hands, 
attenuate  it,  prolong  it,  economize  it,  and  mould  it 
into  the  clew  to  his  own  good-fortune.  He  thus 
counted  much  upon  his  skill  and  his  tact;  but  he 
likewise  placed  a  becoming  degree  of  reliance  upon 
his  solid  personal  qualities, — qualities  too  sober  and 
too  solid,  perhaps,  to  be  called  charms,  but  thor 
oughly  adapted  to  inspire  confidence.  The  Major 
was  not  handsome  in  feature ;  he  left  that  to  younger 
men  and  to  lighter  women;  but  his  ugliness  was 


144 A  Landscape  Painter 

of  a  masculine,  aristocratic,  intelligent  stamp.  His 
figure,  moreover,  was  good  enough  to  compensate 
for  the  absence  of  a  straight  nose  and  a  fine  mouth ; 
and  his  general  bearing  offered  a  most  pleasing  com 
bination  of  the  gravity  of  the  man  of  affairs  and  the 
versatility  of  the  man  of  society. 

In  her  sudden  anxiety  on  Richard's  behalf,  Ger 
trude  soon  forgot  her  own  immaterial  woes.  The 
carriage  which  was  to  have  conveyed  her  to  Mrs. 
Martin's  was  used  for  a  more  disinterested  purpose. 
The  Major,  prompted  by  a  strong  faith  in  the  salu 
tary  force  of  his  own  presence,  having  obtained  her 
permission  to  accompany  her,  they  set  out  for  the 
farm,  and  soon  found  themselves  in  Richard's 
chamber.  The  young  man  was  wrapped  in  a  heavy 
sleep,  from  which  it  was  judged  imprudent  to  arouse 
him.  Gertrude,  sighing  as  she  compared  his  thinly 
furnished  room  with  her  own  elaborate  apartments, 
drew  up  a  mental  list  of  essential  luxuries  which 
she  would  immediately  send  him.  Not  but  that  he 
had  received,  however,  a  sufficiency  of  homely  care. 
The  doctor  was  assiduous,  and  the  old  woman  who 
nursed  him  was  full  of  rough  good-sense. 

"He  asks  very  often  after  you,  Miss,"  she  said, 
addressing  Gertrude,  but  with  a  sly  glance  at  the 
Major.  "But  I  think  you'd  better  not  come  too 
often.  I'm  afraid  you'd  excite  him  more  than  you'd 
quiet  him." 


Poor  Richard  145 


"I'm  afraid  you  would,  Miss  Whittaker,"  said  the 
Major,  who  could  have  hugged  the  good  wife. 

"Why  should  I  excite  him?"  asked  Gertrude, 
"I'm  used  to  sick-rooms.  I  nursed  my  father  for  a 
year  and  a  half." 

"O,  it's  very  well  for  an  old  woman  like  me,  but 
it's  no  place  for  a  fine  young  lady  like  you,"  said  the 
nurse,  looking  at  Gertrude's  muslins  and  laces. 

"I'm  not  so  fine  as  to  desert  a  friend  in  distress," 
said  Gertrude.  "I  shall  come  again,  and  if  it  makes 
the  poor  fellow  worse  to  see  me,  I  shall  stay  away. 
I  am  ready  to  do  anything  that  will  help  him  to  get 
well." 

It  had  already  occurred  to  her  that,  in  his  un 
natural  state,  Richard  might  find  her  presence  a 
source  of  irritation,  and  she  was  prepared  to  remain 
in  the  background.  As  she  returned  to  her  carriage, 
she  caught  herself  reflecting  with  so  much  pleasure 
upon  Major  Luttrel's  kindness  in  expending  a 
couple  of  hours  of  his  valuable  time  on  so  unprofit 
able  an  object  as  poor  Richard,  that,  by  way  of  in 
timating  her  satisfaction,  she  invited  him  to  come 
home  and  dine  with  her. 

After  a  short  interval  she  paid  Richard  a  second 
visit,  in  company  with  Miss  Pendexter.  He  was  a 
great  deal  worse;  he  lay  emaciated,  exhausted,  and 
stupid.  The  issue  was  doubtful.  Gertrude  imme 
diately  pushed  forward  to  M ,  a  larger  town 


146  A  Landscape  Painter 

than  her  own,  sought  out  a  professional  nurse,  and 
arranged  with  him  to  relieve  the  old  woman  from 
the  farm,  who  was  worn  out  with  her  vigilance. 
For  a  fortnight,  moreover,  she  received  constant 
tidings  from  the  young  man's  physician.  During 
this  fortnight,  Major  Luttrel  was  assiduous,  and 
proportionately  successful. 

It  may  be  said,  to  his  credit,  that  he  had  by  no 
means  conducted  his  suit  upon  that  narrow  pro 
gramme  which  he  had  drawn  up  at  the  outset.  He 
very  soon  discovered  that  Gertrude's  resentment — 
if  resentment  there  was — was  a  substance  utterly 
impalpable  even  to  his  most  delicate  tact,  and  he 
had  accordingly  set  to  work  to  woo  her  like  an  hon 
est  man,  from  day  to  day,  from  hour  to  hour,  trust 
ing  so  devoutly  for  success  to  momentary  inspira 
tion,  that  he  felt  his  suit  dignified  by  a  certain  flat 
tering  -faux  air  of  genuine  passion.  He  occasion 
ally  reminded  himself,  however,  that  he  might  really 
be  owing  more  to  the  subtle  force  of  accidental  con 
trast  than  Gertrude's  life-long  reserve — for  it  was 
certain  she  would  not  depart  from  it — would  ever 
allow  him  to  measure. 

It  was  as  an  honest  man,  then,  a  man  of  impulse 
and  of  action,  that  Gertrude  had  begun  to  like  him. 
She  was  not  slow  to  perceive  whither  his  operations 
tended ;  and  she  was  almost  tempted  at  times  to  tell 
Him  frankly  that  she  would  spare  him  the  interme- 


Poor  Richard  147 


diate  steps,  and  meet  him  at  the  goal  without  further 
delay.  It  was  not  that  she  was  prepared  to  love  him, 
but  she  would  make  him  an  obedient  wife.  An  im 
mense  weariness  had  somehow  come  upon  her,  and 
a  sudden  sense  of  loneliness.  A  vague  suspicion 
that  her  money  had  done  her  an  incurable  wrong 
inspired  her  with  a  profound  distaste  for  the  care  of 
it.  She  felt  cruelly  hedged  out  from  human  sym 
pathy  by  her  bristling  possessions.  "If  I  had  had 
five  hundred  dollars  a  year,"  she  said  in  a  frequent 
parenthesis,  "I  might  have  pleased  him."  Hating 
her  wealth,  accordingly,  and  chilled  by  her  isolation, 
the  temptation  was  strong  upon  her  to  give  herself 
up  to  that  wise,  brave  gentleman  who  seemed  to  have 
adopted  such  a  happy  medium  betwixt  loving  her 
for  her  money  and  fearing  her  for  it.  Would  she 
not  always  stand  between  men  who  would  represent 
the  two  extremes  ?  She  would  anticipate  security  by 
an  alliance  with  Major  Luttrel. 

One  evening,  on  presenting  himself,  Luttrel  read 
these  thoughts  so  clearly  in  her  eyes,  that  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  speak.  But  his  mind  was  burdened 
with  a  couple  of  facts,  of  which  it  was  necessary 
that  he  should  discharge  it  before  it  could  enjoy  the 
freedom  of  action  which  the  occasion  required.  In 
the  first  place,  then,  he  had  been  to  see  Richard 
Clare,  and  had  found  him  suddenly  and  decidedly 
better.  It  was  unbecoming,  however, — it  was  im- 


148 A  Landscape  Painter ^^^ 

possible, — that  he  should  allow  Gertrude  to  linger 
over  this  pleasant  announcement. 

"I  tell  the  good  news  first,"  he  said,  gravely.  "I 
have  some  very  bad  news,  too,  Miss  Whittaker." 

Gertrude  sent  him  a  rapid  glance.  "Some  one  has 
been  killed,"  she  said. 

"Captain  Severn  has  been  shot,"  said  the  Major, 
— "shot  by  a  guerilla." 

Gertrude  was  silent.  No  answer  seemed  possible 
to  that  uncompromising  fact.  She  sat  with  her  head 
on  her  hand,  and  her  elbow  on  the  table  beside  her, 
looking  at  the  figures  on  the  carpet.  She  uttered  no 
words  of  commonplace  regret;  but  she  felt  as  little 
like  giving  way  to  serious  grief.  She  had  lost  noth 
ing,  and,  to  the  best  of  her  knowledge,  he  had  lost 
nothing.  She  had  an  old  loss  to  mourn, — a  loss  a 
month  old,  which  she  had  mourned  as  she  might. 
To  give  way  to  passion  would  have  been  but  to  im 
pugn  the  solemnity  of  her  past  regrets.  When  she 
looked  up  at  her  companion,  she  was  pale,  but  she 
was  calm,  yet  with  a  calmness  upon  which  a  single 
glance  of  her  eye  directed  him  not  inconsiderately 
to  presume.  She  was  aware  that  this  glance  be 
trayed  her  secret ;  but  in  view  both  of  Severn's  death 
and  of  the  Major's  attitude,  such  betrayal  mattered 
less.  Luttrel  had  prepared  to  act  upon  her  hint,  and 
to  avert  himself  gently  from  the  topic,  when  Ger 
trude,  who  had  dropped  her  eyes  again,  raised  them 


Poor  Richard  149 


with  a  slight  shudder.  "I'm  cold,"  she  said.  "Will 
you  shut  that  window  beside  you,  Major?  Or  stay, 
suppose  you  give  me  my  shawl  from  the  sofa." 

Luttrel  brought  the  shawl,  placed  it  on  her  shoul 
ders,  and  sat  down  beside  her.  "These  are  cruel 
times,"  he  said,  with  studied  simplicity.  "I'm  sure 
I  hardly  know  what's  to  come  of  it  all." 

"Yes,  they  are  cruel  times,"  said  Gertrude.  "They 
make  one  feel  cruel.  They  make  one  doubt  of  all  he 
has  learnt  from  his  pastors  and  masters." 

"Yes,  but  they  teach  us  something  new  also." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Gertrude,  whose 
heart  was  so  full  of  bitterness  that  she  felt  almost 
malignant.  "They  teach  us  how  mean  we  are.  War 
is  an  infamy,  Major,  though  it  is  your  trade.  It's 
very  well  for  you,  who  look  at  it  professionally,  and 
for  those  who  go  and  fight ;  but  it's  a  miserable  busi 
ness  for  those  who  stay  at  home,  and  do  the  thinking 
and  the  sentimentalizing.  It's  a  miserable  business 
for  women;  it  makes  us  more  spiteful  than  ever." 

"Well,  a  little  spite  isn't  a  bad  thing,  in  practice," 
said  the  Major.  "War  is  certainly  an  abomination, 
both  at  home  and  in  the  field.  But  as  wars  go,  Miss 
Whittaker,  our  own  is  a  very  satisfactory  one.  It 
involves  something.  It  won't  leave  us  as  it  found 
us.  We're  in  the  midst  of  a  revolution,  and  what's 
a  revolution  but  a  turning  upside  down?  It  makes 
sad  work  with  our  habits  and  theories  and  our  tradi- 


150 A  Landscape  Painter 

tions  and  convictions.  But,  on  the  other  hand," 
Luttrel  pursued,  warming  to  his  task,  "it  leaves 
something  untouched,  which  is  better  than  these, — 
I  mean  our  feelings,  Miss  Whittaker."  And  the 
Major  paused  until  he  had  caught  Gertrude's  eyes, 
when,  having  engaged  them  with  his  own,  he  pro 
ceeded.  "I  think  they  are  the  stronger  for  the  down 
fall  of  so  much  else,  and,  upon  my  soul,  I  think  it's 
in  them  we  ought  to  take  refuge.  Don't  you  think 
so?" 

"Yes,  if  I  understand  you." 

"I  mean  our  serious  feelings,  you  know, — not  our 
tastes  nor  our  passions.  I  don't  advocate  fiddling 
while  Rome  is  burning.  In  fact  it's  only  poor,  un 
satisfied  devils  that  are  tempted  to  fiddle.  There  is 
one  feeling  which  is  respectable  and  honorable,  and 
even  sacred,  at  all  times  and  in  all  places,  whatever 
they  may  be.  It  doesn't  depend  upon  circumstances, 
but  they  upon  it ;  and  with  its  help,  I  think,  we  are  a 
match  for  any  circumstances.  I  don't  mean  religion, 
Miss  Whittaker,"  added  the  Major,  with  a  sober 
smile. 

"If  you  don't  mean  religion,"  said  Gertrude,  "I 
.suppose  you  mean  love.  That's  a  very  different 
thing." 

"Yes,  a  very  different  thing;  so  I've  always 
thought,  and  so  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say.  Some 
people,  you  know,  mix  them  up  in  the  most  extraor- 


Poor  Richard  151 


dinary  fashion.  I  don't  fancy  myself  an  especially 
religious  man;  in  fact,  I  believe  I'm  rather  other 
wise.  It's  my  nature.  Half  mankind  are  born  so, 
or  I  suppose  the  affairs  of  this  world  wouldn't 
move.  But  I  believe  I'm  a  good  lover,  Miss  Whit- 
taker." 

"I  hope  for  your  own  sake  you  are,  Major  Lut- 
trel." 

"Thank  you.  Do  you  think  now  you  could  enter 
tain  the  idea  for  the  sake  of  any  one  else?" 

Gertrude  neither  dropped  her  eyes,  nor  shrugged 
her  shoulders,  nor  blushed.  If  anything,  indeed, 
she  turned  somewhat  paler  than  before,  as  she  sus 
tained  her  companion's  gaze,  and  prepared  to  an 
swer  him  as  directly  as  she  might. 

"If  I  loved  you,  Major  Luttrel,"  she  said,  "I 
should  value  the  idea  for  my  own  sake." 

The  Major,  too,  blanched  a  little.  "I  put  my 
question  conditionally,"  he  answered,  "and  I  have 
got,  as  I  deserved,  a  conditional  reply.  I  will  speak 
plainly,  then,  Miss  Whittaker.  Do  you  value  the 
fact  for  your  own  sake?  It  would  be  plainer  still 
to  say,  Do  you  love  me?  but  I  confess  I'm  not  brave 
enough  for  that.  I  will  say,  Can  you?  or  I  will 
even  content  myself  with  putting  it  in  the  condi 
tional  again,  and  asking  you  if  you  could;  although, 
after  all,  I  hardly  know  what  the  if  understood  can 
reasonably  refer  to.  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to  ask 


152 A  Landscape  Painter 

of  any  woman — least  of  all  of  you — to  love  me  con 
tingently.  You  can  only  answer  for  the  present,  and 
say  yes  or  no.  I  shouldn't  trouble  you  to  say  either, 
if  I  didn't  conceive  that  I  had  given  you  time  to 
make  up  your  mind.  It  doesn't  take  forever  to 
know  James  Luttrel.  I'm  not  one  of  the  great  un 
fathomable  ones.  We've  seen  each  other  more  or 
less  intimately  for  a  good  many  weeks ;  and  as  I'm 
conscious,  Miss  Whittaker,  of  having  shown  you 
my  best,  I  take  it  for  granted  that  if  you  don't  fancy 
me  now,  you  won't  a  month  hence,  when  you  shall 
have  seen  my  faults.  Yes,  Miss  Whittaker,  I  can 
solemnly  say,"  continued  the  Major,  with  genuine 
feeling,  "I  have  shown  you  my  best,  as  every  man 
is  in  honor  bound  to  do  who  approaches  a  woman 
with  those  predispositions  with  which  I  have  ap 
proached  you.  I  have  striven  hard  to  please  you," 
— and  he  paused.  "I  can  only  say,  I  hope  I  have 
succeeded." 

"I  should  be  very  insensible,"  said  Gertrude,  "if 
all  your  kindness  and  your  courtesy  had  been  lost 
upon  me." 

"In  Heaven's  name,  don't  talk  about  courtesy," 
cried  the  Major. 

"I  am  deeply  conscious  of  your  devotion,  and  I 
am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  urging  your  claims 
so  respectfully  and  considerately.  I  speak  seriously, 
Major  Luttrel,"  pursued  Gertrude.  "There  is  a 


Poor  Richard  153 


happy  medium  of  expression,  and  you  have  taken 
it.  Now  it  seems  to  me  that  there  is  a  happy  me 
dium  of  affection,  with  which  you  might  be  con 
tent.  Strictly,  I  don't  love  you.  I  question  my 
heart,  and  it  gives  me  that  answer.  The  feeling 
that  I  have  is  not  a  feeling  to  work  prodigies." 

"May  it  at  least  work  the  prodigy  of  allowing 
you  to  be  my  wife?'* 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  over-estimate  its  strength, 
if  I  say  that  it  may.  If  you  can  respect  a  woman 
who  gives  you  her  hand  in  cold  blood,  you  are  wel 
come  to  mine." 

Luttrel  moved  his  chair  and  took  her  hand.  "Beg 
gars  can't  be  choosers,"  said  he,  raising  it  to  his 
mustache. 

"O  Major  Luttrel,  don't  say  that,"  she  answered. 
"I  give  you  a  great  deal ;  but  I  keep  a  little, — a  lit 
tle,"  said  Gertrude,  hesitating,  "which  I  suppose  I 
shall  give  to  God." 

"Well,  I  shall  not  be  jealous,"  said  Luttrel. 

"The  rest  I  give  to  you,  and  in  return  I  ask  a 
great  deal." 

"I  shall  give  you  all.  You  know  I  told  you  I'm 
not  religious." 

"No,  I  don't  want  more  than  I  give,"  said  Ger 
trude. 

"But,  pray,"  asked  Luttrel,  with  a  delicate  smile, 
"what  am  I  to  do  with  the  difference?" 


154 A  Landscape  Painter 

"You  had  better  keep  it  for  yourself.  What  I 
want  is  your  protection,  sir,  and  your  advice,  and 
your  care.  I  want  you  to  take  me  away  from  this 
place,  even  if  you  have  to  take  me  down  to  the 
army.  I  want  to  see  the  world  under  the  shelter  of 
your  name.  I  shall  give  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 
I'm  a  mere  mass  of  possessions :  what  I  am,  is  noth 
ing  to  what  I  have.  But  ever  since  I  began  to  grow 
up,  what  I  am  has  been  the  slave  of  what  I  have. 
I  am  weary  of  my  chains,  and  you  must  help  me  to 
carry  them," — and  Gertrude  rose  to  her  feet  as  if 
to  inform  the  Major  that  his  audience  was  at  an 
end. 

He  still  held  her  right  hand;  she  gave  him  the 
other.  He  stood  looking  down  at  her,  an  image  of 
manly  humility,  while  from  his  silent  breast  went 
out  a  brief  thanksgiving  to  favoring  fortune. 

At  the  pressure  of  his  hands,  Gertrude  felt  her 
bosom  heave.  She  burst  into  tears.  "O,  you  must 
be  very  kind  to  me!"  she  cried,  as  he  put  his  arm 
about  her,  and  she  dropped  her  head  upon  his  shoul 
der. 

When  once  Richard's  health  had  taken  a  turn  for 
the  better,  it  began  very  rapidly  to  improve.  "Until 
he  is  quite  well,"  Gertrude  said,  one  day,  to  her  ac 
cepted  suitor,  "I  had  rather  he  heard  nothing  of 
our  engagement.  He  was  once  in  love  with  me  him- 


Poor  Richard  155 


self/'  she  added,  very  frankly.  "Did  you  ever  sus 
pect  it?  But  I  hope  he  will  have  got  better  of  that 
sad  malady,  too.  Nevertheless,  I  shall  expect  noth 
ing  of  his  good  judgment  until  he  is  quite  strong; 
and  as  he  may  hear  of  my  new  intentions  from  other 
people,  I  propose  that,  for  the  present,  we  confide 
them  to  no  one." 

"But  if  he  asks  me  point-blank,"  said  the  Major, 
"what  shall  I  answer?" 

"It's  not  likely  he'll  ask  you.  How  should  he 
suspect  anything?" 

"O,"  said  Luttrel,  "Clare  is  one  that  suspects 
everything." 

"Tell  him  we're  not  engaged,  then.  A  woman  in 
my  position  may  say  what  she  pleases." 

It  was  agreed,  however,  that  certain  preparations 
for  the  marriage  should  meanwhile  go  forward  in 
secret ;  and  that  the  marriage  itself  should  take  place 
in  August,  as  Luttrel  expected  to  be  ordered  back 
into  service  in  the  autumn.  At  about  this  moment 
Gertrude  was  surprised  to  receive  a  short  note  from 
Richard,  so  feebly  scrawled  in  pencil  as  to  be  barely 
legible.  "Dear  Gertrude,  it  ran,  "don't  come  to  see 
me  just  yet.  I'm  not  fit.  You  would  hurt  me,  and 
vice  versa.  God  bless  you!  R.  CLARE."  Miss 
Whittaker  explained  his  request,  by  the  supposition 
that  a  report  had  come  to  him  of  Major  Luttrel's 
late  assiduities  (which  it  was  impossible  should  go 


156 A  Landscape  Painter 

unobserved) ;  that,  leaping  at  the  worst,  he  had 
taken  her  engagement  for  granted ;  and  that,  under 
this  impression,  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  see 
her.  She  despatched  him  an  answer,  telling  him 
that  she  would  await  his  pleasure,  and  that,  if  the 
doctor  would  consent  to  his  having  letters,  she  would 
meanwhile  occasionally  write  to  him.  "She  will 
give  me  good  advice,"  thought  Richard  impatiently ; 
and  on  this  point,  accordingly,  she  received  no  ac 
count  of  his  wishes.  Expecting  to  leave  her  house 
and  close  it  on  her  marriage,  she  spent  many  hours 
in  wandering  sadly  over  the  meadow-paths  and 
through  the  woodlands  which  she  had  known  from 
her  childhood.  She  had  thrown  aside  the  last  en 
signs  of  filial  regret,  and  now  walked  sad  and  splen 
did  in  the  uncompromising  colors  of  an  affianced 
bride.  It  would  have  seemed  to  a  stranger  that,  for 
a  woman  who  had  freely  chosen  a  companion  for 
life,  she  was  amazingly  spiritless  and  sombre.  As 
she  looked  at  her  pale  cheeks  and  heavy  eyes  in  the 
mirror,  she  felt  ashamed  that  she  had  no  fairer 
countenance  to  offer  to  her  destined  lord.  She  had 
lost  her  single  beauty,  her  smile ;  and  she  would  make 
but  a  ghastly  figure  at  the  altar.  "I  ought  to  wear 
a  calico  dress  and  an  apron,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"and  not  this  glaring  finery."  But  she  continued 
to  wear  her  finery,  and  to  lay  out  her  money,  and  to 
perform  all  her  old  duties  to  the  letter.  After  the 


Poor  Richard  157 


lapse  of  what  she  deemed  a  sufficient  interval,  she 
went  to  see  Mrs.  Martin,  and  to  listen  dumbly  to 
her  narration  of  her  brother's  death,  and  to  her  sim 
ple  eulogies. 

Major  Luttrel  performed  his  part  quite  as 
bravely,  and  much  more  successfully.  He  observed 
neither  too  many  things  nor  too  few;  he  neither 
presumed  upon  his  success,  nor  mistrusted  it.  Hav 
ing  on  his  side  received  no  prohibition  from  Rich 
ard,  he  resumed  his  visits  at  the  farm,  trusting  that, 
with  the  return  of  reason,  his  young  friend  might 
feel  disposed  to  renew  that  anomalous  alliance  in 
which,  on  the  hapless  evening  of  Captain  Severn's 
farewell,  he  had  taken  refuge  against  his  despair. 
In  the  long,  languid  hours  of  his  early  convalescence, 
Richard  had  found  time  to  survey  his  position,  to 
summon  back  piece  by  piece  the  immediate  past,  and 
to  frame  a  general  scheme  for  the  future.  But  more 
vividly  than  anything  else,  there  had  finally  disen 
gaged  itself  from  his  meditations  a  profound  aver 
sion  to  James  Luttrel. 

It  was  in  this  humor  that  the  Major  found  him ; 
and  as  he  looked  at  the  young  man's  gaunt  shoul 
ders,  supported  by  pillows,  at  his  face,  so  livid  and 
aquiline,  at  his  great  dark  eyes,  luminous  with  tri 
umphant  life,  it  seemed  to  him  that  an  invincible 
spirit  had  been  sent  from  a  better  world  to  breathe 
confusion  upon  his  hopes.  If  Richard  hated  the 


158 A  Landscape  Painter 

Major,  the  reader  may  guess  whether  the  Major 
loved  Richard.  Luttrel  was  amazed  at  his  first  re 
mark. 

"I  suppose  you're  engaged  by  this  time,"  Richard 
said,  calmly  enough. 

"Not  quite,"  answered  the  Major.  "There's  a 
chance  for  you  yet." 

To  this  Richard  made  no  rejoinder.  Then,  sud 
denly,  "Have  you  had  any  news  of  Captain  Severn  ?f> 
he  asked. 

For  a  moment  the  Major  was  perplexed  at  his 
question.  He  had  assumed  that  the  news  of  Sev 
ern's  death  had  come  to  Richard's  ears,  and  he  had 
been  half  curious,  half  apprehensive  as  to  its  effect. 
But  an  instant's  reflection  now  assured  him  that  the 
young  man's  estrangement  from  his  neighbors  had 
kept  him  hitherto  and  might  still  keep  him  in  igno 
rance  of  the  truth.  Hastily,  therefore,  and  incon 
siderately,  the  Major  determined  to  confirm  this 
ignorance.  "No,"  said  he;  "I've  had  no  news. 
Severn  and  I  are  not  on  such  terms  as  to  corres 
pond." 

The  next  time  Luttrel  came  to  the  farm,  he  found 
the  master  sitting  up  in  a  great,  cushioned,  chintz- 
covered  arm-chair  which  Gertrude  had  sent  him  the 
day  before  out  of  her  own  dressing-room. 

"Are  you  engaged  yet?"  asked  Richard. 

There  was  a  strain  as  if  of  defiance  in  his  tone. 


Poor  Richard  159 


The  Major  was  irritated.    "Yes,"  said  he,  "we  are 
engaged  now." 

The  young  man's  face  betrayed  no  emotion. 

"Are  you  reconciled  to  it?"  asked  Luttrel. 

"Yes,  practically  I  am." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  practically?  Explain 
yourself." 

"A  man  in  my  state  can't  explain  himself.  I 
mean  that,  however  I  feel  about  it,  I  shall  accept 
Gertrude's  marriage." 

"You're  a  wise  man,  my  boy,"  said  the  Major, 
kindly. 

"I'm  growing  wise.  I  feel  like  Solomon  on  his 
throne  in  this  chair.  But  I  confess,  sir,  I  don't  see 
how  she  could  have  you." 

"Well,  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes,"  said  the 
Major,  good-humoredly. 

"Ah,  if  it's  been  a  matter  of  taste  with  her,"  said 
Richard,  "I  have  nothing  to  say." 

They  came  to  no  more  express  understanding  than 
this  with  regard  to  the  future.  Richard  continued 
to  grow  stronger  daily,  and  to  defer  the  renewal  of 
his  intercourse  with  Gertrude.  A  month  before,  he 
would  have  resented  as  a  bitter  insult  the  intimation 
that  he  would  ever  be  so  resigned  to  lose  her  as  he 
now  found  himself.  He  would  not  see  her  for  two 
reasons:  first,  because  he  felt  that  it  would  be — or 
that  at  least  in  reason  it  ought  to  be — a  painful 


160 A  Landscape  Painter 

experience  to  look  upon  his  old  mistress  with  a  coldly 
critical  eye ;  and  secondly,  because,  justify  to  himself 
as  he  would  his  new-born  indifference,  he  could  not 
entirely  cast  away  the  suspicion  that  it  was  a  last 
remnant  of  disease,  and  that,  when  he  stood  on  his 
legs  again  in  the  presence  of  those  exuberant  land 
scapes  with  which  he  had  long  since  established  a 
sort  of  sensuous  communion,  he  would  feel,  as  with 
a  great  tumultuous  rush,  the  return  of  his  impetuous 
manhood  and  of  his  old  capacity.  When  he  had 
smoked  a  pipe  in  the  outer  sunshine,  when  he  had 
settled  himself  once  more  to  the  long  elastic  bound 
of  his  mare,  then  he  would  see  Gertrude.  The 
reason  of  the  change  which  had  come  upon  him 
was  that  she  had  disappointed  him, — she,  whose 
magnanimity  it  had  once  seemed  that  his  fancy  was 
impotent  to  measure.  She  had  accepted  Major  Lut- 
trel,  a  man  whom  he  despised;  she  had  so  muti 
lated  her  magnificent  heart  as  to  match  it  with  his. 
The  validity  of  his  dislike  to  the  Major,  Richard  did 
not  trouble  himself  to  examine.  He  accepted  it  as 
an  unerring  instinct;  and,  indeed,  he  might  have 
asked  himself,  had  he  not  sufficient  proof?  More 
over  he  labored  under  the  sense  of  a  gratuitous 
wrong.  He  had  suffered  an  immense  torment  of 
remorse  to  drive  him  into  brutishness,  and  thence  to 
the  very  gate  of  death,  for  an  offence  which  he  had 
deemed  mortal,  and  which  was  after  all  but  a  phan- 


Poor  Richard  161 


tasm  of  his  impassioned  conscience.  What  a  fool 
he  had  been!  a  fool  for  his  nervous  fears,  and  a 
fool  for  his  penitence.  Marriage  with  Major  Lut- 
trel, — such  was  the  end  of  Gertrude's  fancied 
anguish.  Such,  too,  we  hardly  need  add,  was  the 
end  of  that  idea  of  reparation  which  had  been  so 
formidable  to  Luttrel.  Richard  had  been  generous ; 
he  would  now  be  just. 

Far  from  impeding  his  recovery,  these  reflections 
hastened  it.  One  morning  in  the  beginning  of 
August,  Gertrude  received  notice  of  Richard's  pres 
ence.  It  was  a  still,  sultry  day,  and  Miss  Whittaker, 
her  habitual  pallor  deepened  by  the  oppressive  heat, 
was  sitting  alone  in  a  white  morning-dress,  languidly 
fanning  aside  at  once  the  droning  flies  and  her 
equally  importunate  thoughts.  She  found  Richard 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  drawing-room,  booted 
and  spurred. 

"Well,  Richard,"  she  exclaimed,  with  some  feel 
ing,  "you're  at  last  willing  to  see  me !" 

As  his  eyes  fell  upon  her,  he  started  and  stood 
almost  paralyzed,  heeding  neither  her  words  nor 
her  extended  hand.  It  was  not  Gertrude  he  saw, 
but  her  ghost. 

"In  Heaven's  name  what  has  happened  to  you?" 
he  cried.  "Have  you  been  ill?" 

Gertrude  tried  to  smile  in  feigned  surprise  at  his 
surprise;  but  her  muscles  relaxed.  Richard's  words 


162 A  Landscape  Painter 

and  looks  reflected  more  vividly  than  any  mirror 
the  dejection  of  her  person;  and  this,  the  misery  of 
her  soul.  She  felt  herself  growing  faint.  She  stag 
gered  back  to  a  sofa  and  sank  down. 

Then  Richard  felt  as  if  the  room  were  revolving 
about  him,  and  as  if  his  throat  were  choked  with 
imprecations, — as  if  his  old  erratic  passion  had  again 
taken  possession  of  him,  like  a  mingled  legion  of 
devils  and  angels.  It  was  through  pity  that  his  love 
returned.  He  went  forward  and  dropped  on  his 
knees  at  Gertrude's  feet.  "Speak  to  me !"  he  cried, 
seizing  her  hands.  "Are  you  unhappy?  Is  your 
heart  broken?  O  Gertrude!  what  have  you  come 
to?" 

Gertrude  drew  her  hands  from  his  grasp  and  rose 
to  her  feet.  "Get  up,  Richard,"  she  said.  "Don't 
talk  so  wildly.  I'm  not  well.  I'm  very  glad  to  see 
you.  You  look  well." 

"I've  got  my  strength  again, — and  meanwhile 
you've  been  failing.  You're  unhappy,  you're 
wretched!  Don't  say  you're  not,  Gertrude:  it's  as 
plain  as  day.  You're  breaking  your  heart." 

"The  same  old  Richard!"  said  Gertrude,  trying 
to  smile  again. 

"Would  that  you  were  the  same  old  Gertrude! 
Don't  try  to  smile ;  you  can't !" 

"I  shall!"  said  Gertrude,  desperately.  "I'm  going 
to  be  married,  you  know." 


Poor  Richard  163 


"Yes,  I  know.    I  don't  congratulate  you/' 

"I  have  not  counted  upon  that  honor,  Richard. 
I  shall  have  to  do  without  it." 

''You'll  have  to  do  without  a  great  many  things!" 
cried  Richard,  horrified  by  what  seemed  to  him  her 
blind  self-immolation. 

"I  have  all  I  ask,"  said  Gertrude. 

"You  haven't  all  /  ask  then!  You  haven't  all 
your  friends  ask." 

"My  friends  are  very  kind,  but  I  marry  to  suit 
myself." 

"You've  not  suited  yourself !"  retorted  the  young 
man.  "You've  suited — God  knows  what! — your 
pride,  your  despair,  your  resentment."  As  he 
looked  at  her,  the  secret  history  of  her  weakness 
seemed  to  become  plain  to  him,  and  he  felt  a  mighty 
rage  against  the  man  who  had  taken  a  base  advan 
tage  of  it.  "Gertrude !"  he  cried,  "I  entreat  you  to 
go  back.  It's  not  for  my  sake, — I'll  give  you  up, — 
I'll  go  a  thousand  miles  away,  and  never  look  at 
you  again.  It's  for  your  own.  In  the  name  of 
your  happiness,  break  with  that  man!  Don't  fling 
yourself  away.  Buy  him  off,  if  you  consider  your 
self  bound.  Give  him  your  money.  That's  all  he 
wants." 

As  Gertrude  listened,  the  blood  came  back  to  her 
face,  and  two  flames  into  her  eyes.  She  looked  at 
Richard  from  head  to  foot.  "You  are  not  weak," 


164 A  Landscape  Painter 

she  said,  "you  are  in  your  senses,  you  are  well  and 
strong;  you  shall  tell  me  what  you  mean.  You 
insult  the  best  friend  I  have.  Explain  yourself !  you 
insinuate  foul  things, — speak  them  out !"  Her  eyes 
glanced  toward  the  door,  and  Richard's  followed 
them.  Major  Luttrel  stood  on  the  threshold. 

"Come  in,  sir!"  cried  Richard.  "Gertrude  swears 
she'll  believe  no  harm  of  you.  Come  and  tell  her 
that  she's  wrong!  How  can  you  keep  on  harassing 
a  woman  whom  you've  brought  to  this  state  ?  Think 
of  what  she  was  three  months  ago,  and  look  at 
her  now !" 

Luttrel  received  this  broadside  without  flinching. 
He  had  overheard  Richard's  voice  from  the  entry, 
and  he  had  steeled  his  heart  for  the  encounter.  He 
assumed  the  air  of  having  been  so  amazed  by  the 
young  man's  first  words  as  only  to  have  heard  his 
last;  and  he  glanced  at  Gertrude  mechanically  as  if 
to  comply  with  them.  "What's  the  matter?"  he 
asked,  going  over  to  her,  and  taking  her  hand ;  "are 
you  ill?"  Gertrude  let  him  have  her  hand,  but  she 
forbore  to  meet  his  eyes. 

"Ill !  of  course  she's  ill !"  cried  Richard,  passion 
ately.  "She's  dying, — she's  consuming  herself!  I 
know  I  seem  to  be  playing  an  odious  part  here, 
Gertrude,  but,  upon  my  soul,  I  can't  help  it.  I  look 
like  a  betrayer,  an  informer,  a  sneak,  but  I  don't 
feel  like  one!  Still,  I'll  leave  you,  if  you  say  so." 


Poor  Richard  165 


"Shall  he  go,  Gertrude?"  asked  Luttrel,  without 
looking  at  Richard. 

"No.  Let  him  stay  and  explain  himself.  He  has 
accused  you, — let  him  prove  his  case." 

"I  know  what  he  is  going  to  say,"  said  Luttrel. 
"It  will  place  me  in  a  bad  light.  Do  you  still  wish 
to  hear  it?" 

Gertrude  drew  her  hand  hastily  out  of  Luttrel's. 
"Speak,  Richard!"  she  cried,  with  a  passionate 
gesture. 

"I  will  speak,"  said  Richard.  "I've  done  you  a 
dreadful  wrong,  Gertrude.  How  great  a  wrong,  I 
never  knew  until  I  saw  you  to-day  so  miserably  al 
tered.  When  I  heard  that  you  were  to  be  married,  I 
fancied  that  it  was  no  wrong,  and  that  my  remorse 
had  been  wasted.  But  I  understand  it  now ;  and  he 
understands  it,  too.  You  once  told  me  that  you  had 
ceased  to  love  Captain  Severn.  It  wasn't  true. 
You  never  ceased  to  love  him.  You  love  him  at  this 
moment.  If  he  were  to  get  another  wound  in  the 
next  battle,  how  would  you  feel?  How  would  you 
bear  it?"  And  Richard  paused  for  an  instant  with 
the  force  of  his  interrogation. 

'Tor  God's  sake,"  cried  Gertrude,  "respect  the 
dead!" 

"The  dead!    Is  he  dead?" 

Gertrude  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"You  beast !"  cried  Luttrel. 


166 A  Landscape  Painter 

Richard  turned  upon  him  savagely.  "Shut  your 
infernal  mouth !"  he  roared.  "You  told  me  he  was 
alive  and  well !" 

Gertrude  made  a  movement  of  speechless  dis 
tress. 

"You  would  have  it,  my  dear,"  said  Luttrel,  with 
a  little  bow. 

Richard  had  turned  pale,  and  began  to  tremble. 
"Excuse  me,  Gertrude/5  he  said  hoarsely,  "I've  been 
deceived.  Poor,  unhappy  woman!  Gertrude,"  he 
continued,  going  nearer  to  her,  and  speaking  in  a 
whisper,  "7  killed  him." 

Gertrude  fell  back  from  him,  as  he  approached 
her,  with  a  look  of  unutterable  horror.  "I  and  he" 
said  Richard,  pointing  at  Luttrel. 

Gertrude's  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  his  ges 
ture,  and  transferred  their  scorching  disgust  to  her 
suitor.  This  was  too  much  for  Luttrel's  courage. 
"You  idiot!"  she  shouted  at  Richard,  "speak  out!" 

"He  loved  you,  though  you  believed  he  didn't," 
said  Richard.  "I  saw  it  the  first  time  I  looked  at 
him.  To  every  one  but  you  it  was  as  plain  as  day. 
Luttrel  saw  it,  too.  But  he  was  too  modest,  and  he 
never  fancied  you  cared  for  him.  The  night  be 
fore  he  went  back  to  the  army,  he  came  to  bid  you 
good-by.  If  he  had  seen  you,  it  would  have  been 
better  for  every  one.  You  remember  that  evening, 
of  course.  We  met  him,  Luttrel  and  I.  He  was  all 


Poor  Richard  167 


on  fire, — he  meant  to  speak.  I  knew  it ;  you  knew  it, 
Luttrel :  it  was  in  his  fingers'  ends.  I  intercepted 
him.  I  turned  him  off, — I  lied  to  him  and  told  him 
you  were  away.  I  was  a  coward,  and  I  did  neither 
more  nor  less  than  that.  I  knew  you  were  waiting 
for  him.  It  was  stronger  than  my  will, — I  believe 
I  should  do  it  again.  Fate  was  against  him,  and 
he  went  off.  I  came  back  to  tell  you,  but  my  dam 
nable  jealousy  strangled  me.  I  went  home  and  drank 
myself  into  a  fever.  I've  done  you  a  wrong  that  I 
can  never  repair.  I'd  go  hang  myself  if  I  thought  it 
would  help  you."  Richard  spoke  slowly,  softly,  and 
explicitly,  as  if  irresistible  Justice  in  person  had 
her  hand  upon  his  neck,  and  were  forcing  him  down 
upon  his  knees.  In  the  presence  of  Gertrude's  dis 
may  nothing  seemed  possible  but  perfect  self -convic 
tion.  In  Luttrel's  attitude,  as  he  stood  with  his  head 
erect,  his  arms  folded,  and  his  cold,  gray  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  distance,  it  struck  him  that  there  was  some 
thing  atrociously  insolent;  not  insolent  to  him, — 
for  that  he  cared  little  enough, — but  insolent  to  Ger 
trude  and  to  the  dreadful  solemnity  of  the  hour. 
Richard  sent  the  Major  a  look  of  the  most  aggres 
sive  contempt.  "As  for  Major  Luttrel,"  he  said, 
"he  was  but  a  passive  spectator.  No,  Gertrude,  by 
Heaven!"  he  burst  out,  "he  was  worse  than  I!  I 
loved  you,  and  he  didn't!" 

"Our   friend  is  correct  in.  his   facts,   Gertrude," 


168 A  Landscape  Painter 

said  Luttrel,  quietly.  "He  is  incorrect  in  his  opin 
ions.  I  was  a  passive  spectator  of  his  deception. 
He  appeared  to  enjoy  a  certain  authority  with  re 
gard  to  your  wishes, — the  source  of  which  I  re 
spected  both  of  you  sufficiently  never  to  question, 
— and  I  accepted  the  act  which  he  has  described  as 
an  exercise  of  it.  You  will  remember  that  you  had 
sent  us  away  on  the  ground  that  you  were  in  no 
humor  for  company.  To  deny  you,  therefore,  to 
another  visitor,  seemed  to  me  rather  officious,  but 
still  pardonable.  You  will  consider  that  I  was 
wholly  ignorant  of  your  relations  to  that  visitor; 
that  whatever  you  may  have  done  for  others,  Ger 
trude,  to  me  you  never  vouchsafed  a  word  of  in 
formation  on  the  subject,  and  that  Mr.  Clare's 
words  are  a  revelation  to  me.  But  I  am  bound  to 
believe  nothing  that  he  says.  I  am  bound  to  be 
lieve  that  I  have  injured  you  only  when  I  hear  it 
from  your  own  lips." 

Richard  made  a  movement  as  if  to  break  out 
upon  the  Major;  but  Gertrude,  who  had  been  stand 
ing  motionless  with  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
quickly  raised  them,  and  gave  him  a  look  of  im 
perious  prohibition.  She  had  listened,  and  she  had 
chosen.  She  turned  to  Luttrel.  "Major  Luttrel," 
she  said,  "you  have  been  an  accessory  in  what  has 
been  for  me  a  serious  grief.  It  is  my  duty  to  tell 
you  so.  I  mean,  of  course,  a  profoundly  unwilling 


Poor  Richard  169 


accessory.  I  pity  you  more  than  I  can  tell  you.  I 
think  your  position  more  pitiable  than  mine.  It  is 
true  that  I  never  made  a  confidant  of  you.  I  never 
made  one  of  Richard.  I  had  a  secret,  and  he  sur 
prised  it.  You  were  less  fortunate."  It  might  have 
seemed  to  a  thoroughly  dispassionate  observer  that 
in  these  last  four  words  there  was  an  infinitesimal 
touch  of  tragic  irony.  Gertrude  paused  a  moment 
while  Luttrel  eyed  her  intently,  and  Richard,  from 
a  somewhat  tardy  instinct  of  delicacy,  walked  over 
to  the  bow-window.  "This  is  the  most  painful  mo 
ment  of  my  life,"  she  resumed.  "I  hardly  know 
where  my  duty  lies.  The  only  thing  that  is  plain 
to  me  is,  that  I  must  ask  you  to  release  me  from  my 
engagement.  I  ask  it  most  humbly,  Major  Luttrel," 
Gertrude  continued,  with  warmth  in  her  words,  and 
a  chilling  coldness  in  her  voice, — a  coldness  which 
it  sickened  her  to  feel  there,  but  which  she  was  un 
able  to  dispel.  "I  can't  expect  that  you  should  give 
me  up  easily;  I  know  that  it's  a  great  deal  to  ask, 
and" — she  forced  the  chosen  words  out  of  her 
mouth — "I  should  thank  you  more  than  I  can  say 
if  you  would  put  some  condition  upon  my  release. 
You  have  done  honorably  by  me,  and  I  repay  you 
with  ingratitude.  But  I  can't  marry  you."  Her 
voice  began  to  melt.  "I  have  been  false  from  the 
beginning.  I  have  no  heart  to  give  you.  I  should 
make  you  a  despicable  wife." 


170  A  Landscape  Painter 

The  Major,  too,  had  listened  and  chosen,  and  in 
this  trying  conjecture  he  set  the  seal  to  his  charac 
ter  as  an  accomplished  man.  He  saw  that  Ger 
trude's  movement  was  final,  and  he  determined  to 
respect  the  inscrutable  mysteryof  her  heart.  He 
read  in  the  glance  of  her  eye  andtReTone  of  her 
voice  that  the  perfect  dignity  had  fallen  from  his 
character, — that  his  integrity  had  lost  its  bloom ; 
but  he  also  read  her  firm  resolve  never  to  admit  this 
fact  to  her  own  mind,  nor  to  declare  it  to  the  world, 
and  he  honored  her  forbearance.  His  hopes,  his 
ambitions,  his  visions,  lay  before  him  like  a  colossal 
heap  of  broken  glass;  but  he  would  be  as  graceful 
as  she  was.  She  had  divined  him;  but  she  had 
spared  him.  The  Major  was  inspired. 

"You  have  at  least  spoken  to  the  point,"  he  said. 
"You  leave  no  room  for  doubt  or  for  hope.  With 
the  little  light  I  have,  I  can't  say  I  understand  your 
feelings,  but  I  yield  to  them  religiously.  I  believe 
so  thoroughly  that  you  suffer  from  the  thought  of 
what  you  ask  of  me,  that  I  will  not  increase  your 
suffering  by  assuring  you  of  my  own.  I  care  for 
nothing  but  your  happiness.  You  have  lost  it,  and 
I  give  you  mine  to  replace  it.  And  although  it's  a 
simple  thing  to  say,"  he  added,  "I  must  say  simply 
that  I  thank  you  for  your  implicit  faith  in  my  in 
tegrity," — and  he  held  out  his  hand.  As  she  gave 
him  hers,  Gertrude  felt  utterly  in  the  wrong ;  and  she 


Poor  Richard  171 


looked  into  his  eyes  with  an  expression  so  humble, 
so  appealing,  so  grateful,  that,  after  all,  his  exit 
may  be  called  triumphant. 

When  he  had  gone,  Richard  turned  from  the 
window  with  an  enormous  sense  of  relief.  He  had 
heard  Gertrude's  speech,  and  he  knew  that  perfect 
justice  had  not  been  done ;  but  still  there  was  enough 
to  be  thankful  for.  Yet  now  that  his  duty  was  ac 
complished,  he  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  lassitude. 
Mechanically  he  looked  at  Gertrude,  and  almost  me 
chanically  he  came  towards  her.  She,  on  her  side, 
looking  at  him  as  he  walked  slowly  down  the  long 
room,  his  face  indistinct  against  the  deadened  light 
of  the  white-draped  windows  behind  him,  marked 
the  expression  of  his  figure  with  another  pang.  "He 
has  rescued  me,"  she  said  to  herself;  "but  his  pas 
sion  has  perished  in  the  tumult.  Richard/'  she  said 
aloud,  uttering  the  first  words  of  vague  kindness 
that  came  into  her  mind,  "I  forgive  you." 

Richard  stopped.  The  idea  had  lost  its  charm. 
"You're  very  kind,"  he  said,  wearily.  "You're  far 
too  kind.  How  do  you  know  you  forgive  me? 
Wait  and  see." 

Gertrude  looked  at  him  as  she  had  never  looked 
before;  but  he  saw  nothing  of  it.  He  saw  a  sad, 
plain  girl  in  a  white  dress,  nervously  handling  her 
fan.  He  was  thinking  of  himself.  If  he  had  been 
thinking  of  her,  he  would  have  read  in  her  lingering, 


172 A  Landscape  Painter ^^ 

upward  gaze,  that  he  had  won  her;  and  if,  so  read 
ing,  he  had  opened  his  arms,  Gertrude  would  have 
come  to  them.  We  trust  the  reader  is  not  shocked. 
She  neither  hated  him  nor  despised  him,  as  she 
ought  doubtless  in  consistency  to  have  done.  She 
felt  that  he  was  abundantly  a  man,  and  she  loved 
him.  Richard,  on  his  side,  felt  humbly  the  same 
truth,  and  he  began  to  respect  himself.  The  past 
had  closed  abruptly  behind  him,  and  tardy  Gertrude 
had  been  shut  in.  The  future  was  dimly  shaping 
itself  without  her  image.  So  he  did  not  open  his 
arms. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand.  "I 
may  not  see  you  again  for  a  long  time." 

Gertrude  felt  as  if  the  world  were  deserting  her. 
"Are  you  going  away?"  she  asked,  tremulously. 

"I  mean  to  sell  out  and  pay  my  debts,  and  go  to 
the  war." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he  silently  shook  it. 
There  was  no  contending  with  the  war,  and  she 
gave  him  up. 

With  their  separation  our  story  properly  ends, 
and  to  say  more  would  be  to  begin  a  new  story.  It 
is,  perhaps,  our  duty,  however,  expressly  to  add, 
that  Major  Luttrel,  in  obedience  to  a  logic  of  his 
own,  abstained  from  revenge;  and  that,  if  time  has 
not  avenged  him,  it  has  at  least  rewarded  him.  Gen 
eral  Luttrel,  who  lost  an  arm  before  the  war  was 


Poor  Richard  173 


over,  recently  married  Miss  Van  Winkel  of  Phila 
delphia,  and  seventy  thousand  a  year.  Richard  en 
gaged  in  the  defence  of  his  country,  on  a  captain's 
commission,  obtained  with  some  difficulty.  He  saw 
a  great  deal  of  fighting,  but  he  has  no  scars  to 
show.  The  return  of  peace  found  him  in  his  native 
place,  without  a  home,  and  without  resources.  One 
of  his  first  acts  was  to  call  dutifully  and  respectfully 
upon  Miss  Whittaker,  whose  circle  of  acquaintance 
had  apparently  become  very  much  enlarged,  and 
now  included  a  vast  number  of  gentlemen.  Ger 
trude's  manner  was  kindness  itself,  but  a  more 
studied  kindness  than  before.  She  had  lost  much 
of  her  youth  and  her  simplicity.  Richard  wondered 
whether  she  had  pledged  herself  to  spinsterhood, 
but,  of  course,  he  didn't  ask  her.  She  inquired  very 
particularly  into  his  material  prospects  and  inten 
tions,  and  offered  most  urgently  to  lend  him  money, 
which  he  declined  to  borrow.  When  he  left  her, 
he  took  a  long  walk  through  her  place  and  beside 
the  river,  and,  wandering  back  to  the  days  when 
he  had  yearned  for  her  love,  assured  himself  that 
no  woman  would  ever  again  be  to  him  what  she  had 
been.  During  his  stay  in  this  neighborhood  he 
found  himself  impelled  to  a  species  of  submission 
to  one  of  the  old  agricultural  magnates  whom  he 
had  insulted  in  his  unregenerate  days,  and  through 
whom  he  was  glad  to  obtain  some  momentary  em- 


174  A  Landscape  Painter 

,  ployment.  But  his  present  position  is  very  distaste- 
,  f ul  to  him,  and  he  is  eager  to  try  his  fortunes  in  the 
;  West.  As  yet,  however,  he  has  lacked  even  the 
means  to  get  as  far  as  St.  Louis.  He  drinks  no 
more  than  is  good  for  him.  To  speak  of  Gertrude's 
impressions  of  Richard  would  lead  us  quite  too  far. 
Shortly  after  his  return  she  broke  up  her  house 
hold,  and  came  to  the  bold  resolution  (bold,  that  is, 
for  a  woman  young,  unmarried,  and  ignorant  of 
manners  in  her  own  country)  to  spend  some  time  in 
Europe.  At  our  last  accounts  she  was  living  in  the 
ancient  city  of  Florence.  Her  great  wealth,  of 
which  she  was  wont  to  complain  that  it  excluded  her 
from  human  sympathy,  now  affords  her  a  most  effi 
cient  protection.  She  passes  among  her  fellow- 
countrymen  abroad  for  a  very  independent,  but  a 
very  happy  woman ;  although,  as  she  is  by  this  time 
twenty-seven  years  of  age,  a  little  romance  is  oc 
casionally  invoked  to  account  for  her  continued  celi 
bacy. 


Ill 

A  DAY  OF  DAYS 


A  DAY  OF  DAYS 

MR.  HERBERT  MOORE,  a  gentleman  of  some  note 
in  the  scientific  world,  and  a  childless  widower,  find 
ing  himself  at  last  unable  to  reconcile  his  sedentary 
habits  with  the  management  of  a  household,  had 
invited  his  only  sister  to  come  and  superintend  his 
domestic  affairs.  Miss  Adela  Moore  had  assented 
the  more  willingly  to  his  proposal,  as  by  her  moth 
er's  death  she  had  recently  been  left  without  a  for 
mal  protector.  She  was  twenty-five  years  of  age, 
and  was  a  very  active  member  of  what  she  and  her 
friends  called  society.  She  was  almost  equally  at 
home  in  the  very  best  company  of  three  great  cities, 
and  she  had  encountered  most  of  the  adventures 
which  await  a  young  girl  on  the  threshold  of  life. 
She  had  become  rather  hastily  and  imprudently  en 
gaged,  but  she  had  eventually  succeeded  in  disen 
gaging  herself.  She  had  spent  a  summer  in 
Europe,  and  she  had  made  a  voyage  to  Cuba  with 

177 


178 A  Landscape  Painter 

a  dear  friend  in  the  last  stage  of  consumption,  who 
had  died  at  the  hotel  in  Havana.  Although  by  no 
means  beautiful  in  person,  she  was  yet  thoroughly 
pleasing,  rejoicing  in  what  young  ladies  are  fond 
of  calling  an  air.  That  is,  she  was  tall  and  slender, 
with  a  long  neck,  a  low  forehead  and  a  handsome 
nose.  Even  after  six  years  of  "society,"  too,  she 
still  had  excellent  manners.  She  was,  moreover, 
mistress  of  a  very  pretty  little  fortune,  and  was  ac 
counted  clever  without  detriment  to  her  amiability, 
and  amiable  without  detriment  to  her  wit.  These 
facts,  as  the  reader  will  allow,  might  have  ensured 
her  the  very  best  prospects ;  but  he  has  seen  that  she 
had  found  herself  willing  to  forfeit  her  prospects 
and  bury  herself  in  the  country.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  had  seen  enough  of  the  world  and  of  human 
nature,  and  that  a  couple  of  years  of  seclusion  might 
not  be  unprofitable.  She  had  begun  to  suspect  that 
for  a  girl  of  her  age  she  was  unduly  old  and  wise — 
and,  what  is  more,  to  suspect  that  others  suspected 
as  much.  A  great  observer  of  life  and  manners,  so 
far  as  her  opportunities  went,  she  conceived  that  it 
behooved  her  to  organize  the  results  of  her  obser 
vation  into  principles  of  conduct  and  of  belief.  She 
was  becoming — so  she  argued — too  impersonal,  too 
critical,  too  intelligent,  too  contemplative,  too  just. 
A  woman  had  no  business  to  be  so  just.  The  so 
ciety  of  nature,  of  the  great  expansive  skies  and  the 


A   Day  of  Days 179 

primeval  woods,  would  prove  severely  unpropitious 
to  her  excessive  intellectual  growth.  She  would 
spend  her  time  in  the  fields  and  live  in  her  feelings, 
her  simple  sense,  and  the  perusal  of  profitable  books 
from  Herbert's  library. 

She  found  her  brother  very  prettily  housed  at 
about  a  mile's  distance  from  the  nearest  town,  and 
at  about  six  miles'  distance  from  another  town,  the 
seat  of  a  small  college,  before  which  he  delivered 
a  weekly  lecture.  She  had  seen  so  little  of  him  of 
late  years  that  his  acquaintance  was  almost  to  make  ; 
but  it  was  very  soon  made.  Herbert  Moore  was 
one  of  the  simplest  and  least  aggressive  of  men,  and 
one  of  the  most  patient  and  delicate  of  students. 
He  had  a  vague  notion  that  Adela  was  a  young 
woman  of  extravagant  pleasures,  and  that,  some 
how,  on  her  arrival,  his  house  would  be  overrun 
with  the  train  of  her  attendant  revellers.  It  was 
not  until  after  they  had  been  six  months  together 
that  he  discovered  that  his  sister  was  a  model  of 
diligence  and  temperance.  By  the  time  six  months 
more  had  passed,  Adela  had  bought  back  a  delight 
ful  sense  of  youth  and  naivete.  She  learned,  under 
her  brother's  tuition,  to  walk — nay,  to  climb,  for 
there  were  great  hills  in  the  neighborhood — to  ride 
and  to  botanize.  At  the  end  of  a  year,  in  the  month 
of  August,  she  received  a  visit  from  an  old  friend, 
a  girl  of  her  own  age,  who  had  been  spending  July 


180 A  Landscape  Painter 

at  a  watering-place,  and  who  was  about  to  be  mar 
ried.  Adela  had  begun  to  fear  that  she  had  lapsed 
into  an  almost  irreclaimable  rusticity,  and  had  suf 
fered  a  permanent  diminution  of  the  social  facility 
for  which  she  had  formerly  been  distinguished ;  but 
a  week  spent  in  tete-a-tete  with  her  friend  convinced 
her  not  only  that  she  had  not  forgotten  much  that 
she  had  feared,  but  also  that  she  had  not  forgotten 
much  that  she  had  hoped.  For  this,  and  other  rea 
sons,  her  friend's  departure  left  her  slightly  de 
pressed.  She  felt  lonely  and  even  a  little  elderly. 
She  had  lost  another  illusion.  Laura  B.,  for  whom 
a  year  ago  she  had  entertained  a  serious  regard,  now 
impressed  her  as  a  very  flimsy  little  person,  who 
talked  about  her  lover  with  almost  indecent  flip 
pancy. 

Meanwhile,  September  was  slowly  running  its 
course.  One  morning  Mr.  Moore  took  a  hasty 
breakfast  and  started  to  catch  the  train  for  S., 
whither  a  scientific  conference  called  him,  which 
might,  he  said,  release  him  that  afternoon  in  time 
for  dinner  at  home,  and  might,  on  the  other  hand, 
detain  him  until  the  evening.  It  was  almost  the  first 
time  during  Adela's  rustication  that  she  had  been 
left  alone  for  several  hours.  Her  brother's  quiet 
presence  was  inappreciable  enough ;  yet  now  that  he 
was  at  a  distance  she  nevertheless  felt  a  singular 
sense  of  freedom ;  a  sort  of  return  of  those  days  of 


A   Day  of  Days 181 

early  childhood,  when,  through  some  domestic  ca 
tastrophe,  she  had  for  an  infinite  morning  been  left 
to  her  own  devices.  What  should  she  do  ?  she  asked 
herself,  half  laughing.  It  was  a  fair  day  for  work : 
but  it  was  a  still  better  one  for  play.  Should  she 
drive  into  town  and  pay  a  long-standing  debt  of 
morning  calls  ?  Should  she  go  into  the  kitchen  and 
try  her  hand  at  a  pudding  for  dinner?  She  felt  a 
delicious  longing  to  do  something  illicit,  to  play 
with  fire,  to  discover  some  Bluebeard's  closet.  But 
poor  Herbert  was  no  Bluebeard.  If  she  were  to 
burn  down  his  house  he  would  exact  no  amends. 
Adela  went  out  to  the  veranda,  and,  sitting  down 
on  the  steps,  gazed  across  the  country.  It  was  ap 
parently  the  last  day  of  Summer.  The  sky  was 
faintly  blue;  the  woody  hills  were  putting  on  the 
morbid  colors  of  Autumn;  the  great  pine  grove  be 
hind  the  house  seemed  to  have  caught  and  impris 
oned  the  protesting  breezes.  Looking  down  the  road 
toward  the  village,  it  occurred  to  Adela  that  she 
might  have  a  visit,  and  so  kindly  was  her  mood  that 
she  felt  herself  competent  to  a  chat  with  one  of  her 
rustic  neighbors.  As  the  sun  rose  higher,  she  went 
in  and  established  herself  with  a  piece  of  embroid 
ery  in  a  deep,  bow  window  in  the  second  story, 
which,  betwixt  its  muslin  curtains  and  its  external 
frame-work  of  vines,  commanded  most  insidiously 
the  principal  approach  to  the  house.  While  she 


182 A  Landscape  Painter 

drew  her  threads,  she  surveyed  the  road  with  a 
deepening  conviction  that  she  was  destined  to  have 
a  caller.  The  air  was  warm,  yet  not  hot;  the  dust 
had  been  laid  during  the  night  by  a  gentle  rain.  It 
had  been  from  the  first  a  source  of  complaint  among 
Adela's  new  friends  that  her  courtesies  were  so 
thoroughly  indiscriminating.  Not  only  had  she  lent 
herself  to  no  friendships,  but  she  had  committed 
herself  to  no  preferences.  Nevertheless,  it  was 
with  a  by  no  means  impartial  fancy  that  she  sat 
thus  expectant  at  her  casement.  She  had  very  soon 
made  up  her  mind  that,  to  answer  the  exactions  of 
the  hour,  her  visitor  should  perforce  be  of  the  other 
sex,  and  as,  thanks  to  the  somewhat  uncompromis 
ing  indifference  which,  during  her  residence,  she  had 
exhibited  to  the  jeunesse  doree  of  the  county,  her 
roll-call,  in  this  her  hour  of  need,  was  limited  to  a 
single  name,  so  her  thoughts  were  now  centered 
upon  the  bearer  of  that  name,  Mr.  Madison  Perkins, 
the  Unitarian  minister.  If,  instead  of  being  Miss 
Moore's  story,  this  were  Mr.  Perkins's,  it  might  eas 
ily  be  condensed  into  the  one  pregnant  fact  that  he 
was  very  far  gone  in  love  for  our  heroine.  Al 
though  of  a  different  faith  from  his,  she  had  been 
so  well  pleased  with  one  of  his  sermons,  to  which 
she  had  allowed  herself  to  lend  a  tolerant  ear,  that, 
meeting  him  some  time  afterward,  she  had  received 
him  with  what  she  considered  a  rather  knotty  doc- 


A   Day   of  Days 183 

trinal  question;  whereupon,  gracefully  waiving  the 
question,  he  had  asked  permission  to  call  upon  her 
and  talk  over  her  "difficulties."  This  short  inter 
view  had  enshrined  her  in  the  young  minister's 
heart ;  and  the  half-dozen  occasions  on  which  he  had 
subsequently  contrived  to  see  her  had  each  con 
tributed  an  additional  taper  to  her  shrine.  It  is  but 
fair  to  add,  however,  that,  although  a  captive,  Mr. 
Perkins  was  as  yet  no  captor.  He  was  simply  an 
honorable  young  man,  who  happened  at  this  mo 
ment  to  be  the  most  sympathetic  companion  within 
reach.  Adela,  at  twenty-five  years  of  age,  had  both 
a  past  and  a  future.  Mr.  Perkins  reechoed  the  one, 
and  foreshadowed  the  other. 

So,  at  last,  when,  as  the  morning  waned  toward 
noon,  Adela  descried  in  the  distance  a  man's  figure 
treading  the  grassy  margin  of  the  road,  and  swing 
ing  his  stick  a  she  came,  she  smiled  to  herself  with 
some  complacency.  But  even  while  she  smiled  she  be 
came  conscious  of  a  most  foolish  acceleration  of  the 
process  of  her  heart.  She  rose,  and  resenting  her 
gratuitous  emotion,  stood  for  a  moment  half  re 
solved  to  have  herself  denied.  As  she  did  so,  she 
glanced  along  the  road  again.  Her  friend  had 
drawn  nearer,  and,  as  the  distance  lessened,  lo!  it 
seemed  to  her  that  he  was  not  her  friend.  Before 
many  moments  her  doubts  were  removed.  The  gen 
tleman  was  a  stranger.  In  front  of  the  house  three 


184 A  Landscape  Painter 

roads  diverged  from  a  great  spreading  elm.  The 
stranger  came  along  the  opposite  side  of  the  high 
way,  and  when  he  reached  the  elm  stopped  and 
looked  about  him  as  if  to  verify  a  direction.  Then 
he  deliberately  crossed  over.  Adela  had  time  to  see, 
unseen,  that  he  was  a  shapely  young  man,  with  a 
bearded  chin  and  a  straw  hat.  After  the  due  inter 
val,  Becky,  the  maid,  came  up  with  a  card  some 
what  rudely  superscribed  in  pencil: 

THOMAS  LUDLOW, 
New  York. 

Turning  it  over  in  her  fingers,  Adela  saw  that 
the  reverse  of  a  card  had  been  used,  abstracted  from 
the  basket  on  her  own  drawing-room  table.  The 
printed  name  on  the  other  side  was  dashed  out;  it 
ran:  Mr.  Madison  Perkins. 

"He  asked  me  to  give  you  this,  ma'am,"  said 
Becky.  "He  helped  himself  to  it  out  of  the  tray." 

"Did  he  ask  for  me  by  name?" 

"No,  ma'am,  he  asked  for  Mr.  Moore.  When  I 
told  him  Mr.  Moore  was  away,  he  asked  for  some 
of  the  family.  I  told  him  you  were  all  the  family, 
ma'am." 

"Very  well,"  said  Adela,  "I  will  go  down."  But, 
begging  her  pardon,  we  will  precede  her  by  a  few 
steps. 

Tom  Ludlow,  as  his  friends  called  him,  was  a 


A    Day   of  Days 185 

young  man  of  twenty-eight,  concerning  whom  you 
might  have  heard  the  most  various  opinions ;  for,  as 
far  as  he  was  known  (which,  indeed,  was  not  very 
far),  he  was  at  once  one  of  the  best  liked  and  one 
of  the  best  hated  of  men.  Born  in  one  of  the  lower 
strata  of  New  York  society,  he  was  still  slightly  in- 
crusted,  if  we  may  so  express  it,  with  his  native  soil. 
A  certain  crudity  of  manners  and  of  aspect  proved 
him  to  be  one  of  the  great  majority  of  the  ungloved. 
On  this  basis,  however,  he  was  a  sufficiently  good- 
looking  fellow :  a  middle-sized,  agile  figure ;  a  head 
so  well  shaped  as  to  be  handsome ;  a  pair  of  inquisi 
tive,  responsive  eyes,  and  a  large,  manly  mouth,  con 
stituting  his  heritage  of  beauty.  Turned  upon  the 
world  at  an  early  age,  he  had,  in  the  pursuit  of  a 
subsistence,  tried  his  head  at  everything  in  succes 
sion,  and  had  generally  found  it  to  be  quite  as  hard 
as  the  opposing  substance ;  and  his  figure  may  have 
been  thought  to  reflect  this  sweet  assurance  in  a  look 
of  somewhat  aggressive  satisfaction  with  things  in 
general,  himself  included.  He  was  a  man  of  strong 
faculties  and  a  strong  will,  but  it  is  doubtful  whether 
his  feelings  were  stronger  than  he.  He  was  liked 
for  his  directness,  his  good  humor,  his  general 
soundness  and  serviceableness ;  he  was  disliked  for 
the  same  qualities  under  different  names;  that  is, 
for  his  impudence,  his  offensive  optimisms,  and  his 
inhuman  avidity  for  facts.  When  his  friends  in^ 


186 A  Landscape  Painter 

sisted  upon  his  noble  disinterestedness,  his  enemies 
were  wont  to  reply  it  was  all  very  well  to  ignore, 
to  nullify  oneself  in  the  pursuit  of  science,  but  that 
to  suppress  the  rest  of  mankind  coincidentally  be 
trayed  an  excess  of  zeal.  Fortunately  for  Ludlow, 
on  the  whole,  he  was  no  great  listener;  and  even  if 
he  had  been,  a  certain  plebeian  thick-skinnedness 
would  have  been  the  guaranty  of  his  equanimity; 
although  it  must  be  added  that,  if,  like  a  genuine 
democrat,  he  was  very  insensitive,  like  a  genuine 
democrat,  too,  he  was  amazingly  proud.  His  tastes, 
which  had  always  been  for  the  natural  sciences,  had 
recently  led  him  to  paleontology,  that  branch  of 
them  cultivated  by  Herbert  Moore ;  and  it  was  upon 
business  connected  with  this  pursuit  that,  after  a 
short  correspondence,  he  had  now  come  to  see  him. 

As  Adela  went  in  to  him,  he  came  out  with  a  bow 
from  the  window,  whence  he  had  been  contemplat 
ing  the  lawn.  She  acknowledged  his  greeting. 

"Miss  Moore,  I  believe,"  said  Ludlow. 

"Miss  Moore,"  said  Adela. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  this  intrusion,  but  as  I 
had  come  from  a  distance  to  see  Mr.  Moore  on  busi 
ness,  I  thought  I  might  venture  either  to  ask  at  head 
quarters  how  he  may  most  easily  be  reached,  or  even 
to  charge  you  with  a  message."  These  words  were 
accompanied  with  a  smile  before  which  it  was 
Adela' s  destiny  to  succumb — if  this  is  not  too  forci- 


A   Day   of  Days 187 

ble  a  term  for  the  movement  of  feeling  with  which 
she  answered  them. 

"Pray  make  no  apologies,"  she  said.  "We  hardly 
recognize  such  a  thing  as  intrusion  in  the  country. 
Won't  you  sit  down?  My  brother  went  away  only 
this  morning,  and  I  expect  him  back  this  after 


noon." 


"This  afternoon?  indeed.  In  that  case  I  believe 
I'll  wait.  It  was  very  stupied  of  me  not  to  have 
dropped  a  word  beforehand.  But  I  have  been  in 
the  city  all  Summer  long,  and  I  shall  not  be  sorry 
to  screw  a  little  vacation  out  of  this  business.  I'm 
prodigiously  fond  of  the  country,  and  I  very  sel 
dom  get  a  glimpse  of  it." 

"It's  possible,"  said  Adela,  "that  my  brother  may 
not  come  home  until  the  evening.  He  was  uncer 
tain.  You  might  go  to  him  at  S." 

Ludlow  reflected  a  moment,  with  his  eyes  on  his 
hostess.  "If  he  does  return  in  the  afternoon,  at 
what  hour  will  he  arrive?" 

"At  three." 

"And  my  own  train  leaves  at  four.  Allow  him 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  come  from  town  and  my 
self  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  get  there  (if  he  would 
give  me  his  vehicle,  back),  I  should  have  half  an 
hour  to  see  him.  We  couldn't  do  much  talk,  but  I 
could  ask  him  the  essential  questions.  I  wish  chiefly 
to  ask  him  for  some  letters.  It  seems  a  pity  to  take 


188 A  Landscape  Painter 

two  superfluous — that  i^,  possibly  superfluous — rail 
way  journeys  of  an  hour  apiece,  for  I  should  prob 
ably  come  back  with  him.  Don't  you  think  so?"  he 
asked,  very  frankly. 

"You  know  best,"  said  Adela.  "I'm  not  partic 
ularly  fond  of  the  journey  to  S.,  even  when  it's  ab 
solutely  necessary." 

"Yes;  and  then  this  is  such  a  lovely  day  for  a 
good  long  ramble  in  the  fields.  That's  a  thing  I 
haven't  done  since  I  don't  know  when.  I'll  stay." 
And  he  placed  his  hat  on  the  floor  beside  him. 

"I'm  afraid,  now  that  I  think  of  it,"  said  Adela, 
"that  there  is  no  train  until  so  late  an  hour  that  you 
would  have  very  little  time  left  on  your  arrival  to 
talk  with  my  brother  before  the  hour  at  which  he 
himself  might  have  determined  to  start  for  home. 
It's  true  that  you  might  induce  him  to  remain  till 
the  evening." 

"Dear  me !  I  shouldn't  like  to  do  that.  It  might 
be  very  inconvenient  for  him.  Besides  I  shouldn't 
have  time.  And  then  I  always  like  to  see  a  man  in 
his  own  home — or  in  my  own  home;  a  man,  that 
is,  whom  ITiave  any  regard  for — and  I  have  a  very 
great  regard  for  your  brother,  Miss  Moore.  When 
men  meet  at  a  half-way  house,  neither  feels  at  his 
ease.  And  then  this  is  such  an  uncommonly  pretty 
place  of  yours,"  pursued  Ludlow,  looking  about 
him. 


A   Day   of  Days 189 

"Yes,  it's  a  very  pretty  place,"  said  Adela. 

Ludlow  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window.  "I 
want  to  look  at  your  view,"  said  he.  "A  lovely 
view  it  is.  You're  a  happy  woman,  Miss  Moore,  to 
live  before  such  a  prospect." 

"Yes,  if  pretty  scenery  can  make  one  happy,  I 
ought  to  be  happy."  And  Adela  was  glad  to  regain 
her  feet  and  stand  on  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
before  the  window. 

"Don't  you  think  it  can?"  asked  Ludlow  turning 
around.  "I  don't  know,  though,  perhaps  it  can't. 
Ugly  sights  can't  make  you  unhappy,  necessarily. 
I've  been  working  for  a  year  in  one  of  the  narrow 
est,  darkest,  dirtiest,  and  busiest  streets  in  New 
York,  with  rusty  bricks  and  muddy  gutters  for 
scenery.  But  I  think  I  can  hardly  set  up  to  be 
miserable.  I  wish  I  could.  It  might  be  a  claim  on 
your  favor."  As  he  said  these  words,  he  stood 
leaning  against  the  windowT  shutter,  without  the 
curtain,  with  folded  arms.  The  morning  light  cov 
ered  his  face,  and,  mingled  with  that  of  his  broad 
laugh,  showed  Adela  that  it  was  a  very  pleasant 
face. 

"Whatever  else  he  may  be,"  she  said  to  herself 
as  she  stood  within  the  shade  of  the  other  curtain, 
playing  with  the  paper-knife  which  she  had  plucked 
from  the  table.  "I  think  he  is  honest.  I  am  afraid 
he  isn't  a  gentleman — but  he  is  not  a  simpleton." 


190 A  Landscape  Painter 

She  met  his  eye  frankly  for  a  moment.  "What  do 
you  want  of  my  favor?"  she  asked,  with  an  abrupt 
ness  of  which  she  was  acutely  conscious.  "Does  he 
wish  to  make  friends,"  she  pursued,  "or  does  he 
merely  wish  to  pay  me  a  vulgar  compliment  ?  There 
is  bad  taste,  perhaps,  in  either  case,  but  especially 
in  the  latter."  Meanwhile  her  visitor  had  already 
answered  her. 

"What  do  I  want  of  your  favor?  Why,  I  want  to 
make  the  most  of  it."  And  Ludlow  blushed  at  his 
own  audacity. 

Adela,  however,  kept  her  color.  "I'm  afraid  it 
will  need  all  your  pulling  and  stretching,"  she  said, 
with  a  little  laugh. 

"All  right.  I'm  great  at  pulling  and  stretching," 
said  Ludlow,  with  a  deepening  of  his  great  mas 
culine  blush,  and  a  broad  laugh  to  match  it. 

Adela  glanced  toward  the  clock  on  the  mantle. 
She  was  curious  to  measure  the  duration  of  her  ac 
quaintance  with  this  breezy  invader  of  her  privacy, 
with  whom  she  so  suddenly  found  herself  bandying 
florid  personalities.  She  had  known  him  some  eight 
minutes. 

Ludlow  observed  her  movement.  "I'm  interrupt 
ing  you  and  detaining  you  from  your  own  affairs," 
he  said ;  and  he  moved  toward  his  hat.  "I  suppose 
I  must  bid  you  good-morning."  And  he  picked 
it  up. 


A    Day   of  Days 191 

Adela  stood  at  the  table  and  watched  him  cross 
the  room.  To  express  a  very  delicate  feeling  in 
terms  comparatively  broad,  she  was  loth  to  have 
him  go.  She  divined,  too,  that  he  was  loth  to  go. 
The  knowledge  of  this  feeling  on  his  part,  however, 
affected  her  composure  but  slightly.  The  truth  is — 
we  say  it  with  all  respect — Adela  was  an  old  hand. 
She  was  modest,  honest  and  wise ;  but,  as  we  have 
said,  she  had  a  past — a  past  of  which  importunate 
swains  in  the  guise  of  morning-callers  had  been  no 
inconsiderable  part;  and  a  great  dexterity  in  what 
may  be  called  outflanking  these  gentlemen,  was  one 
of  her  registered  accomplishements.  Her  liveliest 
emotion  at  present,  therefore,  was  less  one  of  annoy 
ance  at  her  companion  than  of  surprise  at  her  own 
gracious  impulses,  which  were  yet  undeniable.  "Am 
I  dreaming?"  she  asked  herself.  She  looked  out  of 
the  window,  and  then  back  at  Ludlow,  who  stood 
grasping  his  hat  and  stick,  contemplating  her  face. 
Should  she  bid  him  remain?  "He  is  honest," 
she  repeated;  "why  should  not  I  be  honest  for 
once?"  "I'm  sorry  you  are  in  a  hurry,"  she  said 
aloud. 

"I  am  in  no  hurry,"  he  answered. 

Adela  turned  her  face  to  the  window  again,  and 
toward  the  opposite  hills.  There  was  a  moment's 
pause. 

"I  thought  you  were  in  a  hurry,"  said  Ludlow. 


192 A  Landscape  Painter 

Adela  gave  him  her  eyes.  "My  brother  would  be 
very  glad  to  have  you  remain  as  long  as  you  like. 
He  would  expect  me  to  offer  you  what  little  hospi 
tality  is  in  my  power." 

"Pray,  offer  it  then." 

"That's  easily  done.  This  is  the  parlor,  and  there, 
beyond  the  hall,  is  my  brother's  study.  Perhaps  you 
would  like  to  look  at  his  books  and  his  collections. 
I  know  nothing  about  them,  and  I  should  be  a  very 
poor  guide.  But  you  are  welcome  to  ^o  in  and  use 
your  discretion  in  examining  what  may  interest 
you." 

"This,  I  take  it,  would  be  but  another  way  of  bid 
ding  you  good-morning." 

"For  the  present,  yes." 

"But  I  hesitate  to  take  such  liberties  with  your 
brother's  treasures  as  you  prescribe," 

"Prescribe,  sir?    I  prescribe  nothing." 

"But  if  I  decline  to  penetrate  into  Mr.  Moore's 
sanctum,  what  alternative  remains?" 

"Really — you  must  make  your  own  alternative." 

"I  think  you  mentioned  the  parlor.  Suppose  I 
choose  that." 

"Just  as  you  please.  Here  are  some  books,  and, 
if  you  like,  I  will  bring  you  some  magazines.  Can 
I  serve  you  in  any  other  way?  Are  you  tired  by 
your  walk?  Would  you  like  a  glass  of  wine?" 

"Tired  by  my  walk  ? — not  exactly.    You  are  very 


A   Day  of  Days 193 

kind,  but  I  feel  no  immediate  desire  for  a  glass  of 
wine.  I  think  you  needn't  trouble  yourself  about 
the  magazines,  either.  I  am  in  no  mood  to  read. 
And  Ludlow  pulled  out  his  watch  and  compared 
it  with  the  clock.  "I'm  afraid  your  clock  is 
fast." 

"Yes;"  said  Adela,  "very  likely." 

"Some  ten  minutes.  Well,  I  suppose  I  had  better 
be  walking ;"  and,  coming  toward  Adela,  he  extend 
ed  his  hand. 

She  gave  him  hers.  "It's  a  day  of  days  for  a 
long,  slow  ramble,"  she  said. 

Ludlow's  only  rejoinder  was  his  hand-shake.  He 
moved  slowly  toward  the  door,  half  accompanied 
by  Adela.  "Poor  fellow !"  she  said  to  herself.  The 
lattice  summer-door  admitted  into  the  entry  a  cool, 
dusky  light,  in  which  Adela  looked  pale.  Ludlow 
divided  its  wings  with  his  stick,  and  disclosed  a 
landscape,  long,  deep  and  bright,  framed  by  the  pil 
lars  of  the  veranda.  He  stopped  on  the  threshhold, 
swinging  his  stick.  "I  hope  I  shan't  lose  my  way," 
he  said. 

"I  hope  not.  My  brother  will  not  forgive  me  if 
you  do." 

Ludlow's  brows  were  slightly  contracted  by  a 
frown,  but  he  contrived  to  smile  with  his  lips. 
"When  shall  I  come  back?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

Adela  found  but  a  low  tone — almost  a  whisper — 


194 A  Landscape  Painter 

at  her  command,  to  answer.  "Whenever  you 
please/1  she  said. 

The  young  man  turned  about,  with  his  back  to 
the  bright  doorway,  and  looked  into  Adela's  face, 
which  was  now  covered  with  light.  "Miss  Moore," 
said  he,  "it's  very  much  against  my  will  that  I  leave 
you  at  all." 

Adela  stood  debating  within  herself.  What  if 
her  companion  should  stay?  It  would,  under  the 
circumstances,  be  an  adventure ;  but  was  an  advent 
ure  necessarily  unadvisable  ?  It  lay  wholly  with  her 
self  to  decide.  She  was  her  own  mistress,  and  she 
had  hitherto  been  a  just  mistress.  Might  she  not 
for  once  be  a  generous  one?  The  reader  will  ob 
serve  in  Adela's  meditation  the  recurrence  of  this 
saving  clause  "for  once."  It  rests  upon  the  simple 
fact  that  she  had  begun  the  day  in  a  romantic  mood. 
She  was  prepared  to  be  interested ;  and  now  that  an 
interesting  phenomenon  had  presented  itself,  that  it 
stood  before  her  in  vivid  human — nay,  manly — 
shape,  instinct  with  reciprocity,  was  she  to  close 
her  hand  to  the  liberality  of  fate  ?  To  do  so  would 
be  to  court  mischance;  for  it  would  involve,  more 
over,  a  petty  insult  to  human  nature.  Was  not  the 
man  before  her  fairly  redolent  of  honesty,  and  was 
that  not  enough  ?  He  was  not  what  Adela  had  been 
used  to  call  a  gentleman.  To  this  conviction  she 
had  made  a  swallow's  flight ;  but  from  this  assurance 


A    Day   of   Days 195 

she  would  start.  "I  have  seen"  (she  thus  conclud 
ed)  "all  the  gentlemen  can  show  me;  let  us  try  some 
thing  new." 

"I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  run  away  so 
fast,  Mr.  Ludlow,"  she  said,  aloud. 

"I  think,"  cried  Ludlow,  "it  would  be  the  greatest 
piece  of  folly  I  ever  committed." 

"I  think  it  would  be  a  pity,"  said  Adela,  with  a 
smile. 

"And  you  invite  me  into  your  parlor  again?  I 
come  as  your  visitor,  you  know.  I  was  your 
brother's  before.  It's  a  simple  enough  matter.  We 
are  old  friends.  We  have  a  broad,  common  ground 
in  your  brother.  Isn't  that  about  it?" 

"You  may  adopt  whatever  theory  you  please. 
To  my  mind,  it  is,  indeed,  a  very  simple  matter." 

"Oh,  but  I  wouldn't  have  it  too  simple,"  said  Lud 
low,  with  a  mighty  smile. 

"Have  it  as  you  please." 

Ludlow  leaned  back  against  the  doorway.  "Your 
kindness  is  too  much  for  me,  Miss  Moore,"  said  he. 
"I  am  passive ;  I  am  in  your  hands ;  do  with  me  what 
you  please.  I  can't  help  contrasting  my  fate  with 
what  it  might  have  been  but  for  you.  A  quarter  of 
an  hour  ago  I  was  ignorant  of  your  existence;  you 
weren't  in  my  programme.  I  had  no  idea  your 
brother  had  a  sister.  When  your  servant  spoke  of 
'Miss  Moore,'  upon  my  word  I  expected  something 


196 A  Landscape  Painter 

rather  elderly — something  venerable — some  rigid 
old  lady,  who  would  say,  'exactly/  and  Very  well, 
sir/  and  leave  me  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  morning 
tilting  back  in  a  chair  on  the  hotel  piazza,.  It  shows 
what  fools  we  are  to  attempt  to  forecast  the  future. 

"We  must  not  let  our  imagination  run  away  with 
us  in  any  direction,"  said  Adela. 

"Imagination?  I  don't  believe  I  have  any.  No, 
madam/'  and  Ludlow  straightened  himself  up,  "I 
live  in  the  present.  I  write  my  programme  from 
hour  to  hour — or,  at  any  rate,  I  will  in  the  future." 

"I  think  you  are  very  wise,"  said  Adela. 
"Suppose  you  write  a  programme  for  the  present 
hour.  What  shall  we  do?  It  seems  to  me  a  pity 
to  spend  so  lovely  a  morning  in-doors.  I  fancy 
this  is  the  last  day  of  Summer.  We  ought  to  cele 
brate  it.  How  would  you  like  a  walk  ?"  Adela  had 
decided  that,  to  reconcile  her  favors  with  the  proper 
maintenance  of  her  dignity,  her  only  course  was  to 
play  the  perfect  hostess.  This  decision  made,  very 
naturally  and  gracefully  she  played  her  part.  It  was 
the  one  possible  part.  And  yet  it  did  not  preclude 
those  delicate  sensations  with  which  her  novel  epi 
sode  seemed  charged:  it  simply  legitimated  them. 
A  romantic  adventure  on  so  classical  a  basis  would 
assuredly  hurt  no  one. 

"I  should  like  a  walk  very  much,"  said  Ludlow; 
"a  walk  with  a  halt  at  the  end  of  it." 


A    Day   of   Days 197 

"Well,  if  you  will  consent  to  a  short  halt  at  the 
beginning  of  it,"  said  Adela,  "I  will  be  with  you  in 
a  very  few  minutes."  When  she  returned  in  her 
little  hat  and  shawl,  she  found  her  friend  seated  on 
the  veranda  steps.  He  arose  and  gave  her  a  card. 

"I  have  been  requested,  in  your  absence,  to  hand 
you  this,"  he  said. 

Adela  read  with  some  compunction  the  name  of 
Mr.  Madison  Perkins. 

''Has  he  been  here?"  she  asked.  "Why  didn't 
he  come  in?" 

"I  told  him  you  were  not  at  home.  If  it  wasn't 
true  then,  it  was  going  to  be  true  so  soon  that  the 
interval  was  hardly  worth  taking  account  of.  He 
addressed  himself  to  me,  as  I  seemed  from  my  po 
sition  to  be  quite  at  home  here;  but  I  confess  he 
looked  at  me  as  if  he  doubted  my  word.  He  hesi 
tated  as  to  whether  he  should  confide  his  name  to 
me,  or  whether  he  should  confide  it  in  that  shape  to 
the  entry  table.  I  think  he  wished  to  show  me  that 
he  suspected  my  veracity,  for  he  was  making  rather 
grimly  for  the  table  when  I,  fearing  that  once  in 
side  the  house  he  might  encounter  the  living  truth, 
informed  him  in  the  most  good-humored  tone  pos- 
ible  that  I  would  take  charge  of  his  little  tribute. 

"I  think,  Mr.  Ludlow,  that  you  are  a  strangely 
^unscrupulous  man.  How  did  you  know  that  Mr. 
Perkins's  business  was  not  urgent  ?" 


198 A  Landscape  Painter 

"I  didn't  know  it.  But  I  knew  it  could  be  no 
more  urgent  than  mine.  Depend  upon  it,  Miss 
Moore,  you  have  no  case  against  me.  I  only  pretend 
to  be  a  man ;  to  have  admitted  that  charming  young 
gentleman  would  have  been  heroic." 

Adela  was  familiar  with  a  sequestered  spot,  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  fields,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  to 
which  she  now  proposed  to  conduct  her  friend.  The 
point  was  to  select  a  goal  neither  too  distant  nor  too 
near,  and  to  adopt  a  pace  neither  too  rapid  nor  too 
slow.  But  although  Adela' s  happy  valley  was  a 
good  two  miles  away,  and  they  had  measured  the 
interval  with  the  very  minimum  of  speed,  yet  most 
sudden  seemed  their  arrival  at  the  stile  over  which 
Adela  was  used  to  strike  into  the  meadows.  Once 
on  the  road,  she  felt  a  precipitate  conviction  that 
there  could  be  no  evil  in  an  adventure  so  essentially 
wholesome  as  that  to  which  she  had  lent  herself, 
and  that  there  could  be  no  guile  in  a  spirit  so  deep 
ly  sensitive  to  the  sacred  influences  of  Nature,  and 
to  the  melancholy  aspect  of  incipient  Autumn  as  that 
of  her  companion.  A  man  with  an  unaffected  relish 
for  small  children  is  a  man  to  inspire  young  women 
with  a  generouse  confidence;  and  so,  in  a  lesser  de- 

\gree,  a  man  with  a  genuine  feeling  for  the  simple 
beauties  of  a  common  New  England  landscape  may 
not  unreasonably  be  accepted  by  the  daughters  of 
the  scene  as  a  person  worthy  of  their  esteem.  Adela 


A    Day   of  Days  199 

was  a  great  observer  of  the  clouds,  the  trees  and  the 
streams,  the  sounds  and  colors,  the  echoes  and  re 
flections  native  to  her  adopted  home;  and  she  ex 
perienced  an  honest  joy  at  the  sight  of  Ludlow's 
keen  appreciation  of  these  modest  facts.  His  en 
joyment  of  them,  deep  as  it  was,  however,  had  to 
struggle  against  that  sensuous  depression  natural 
to  a  man  who  has  spent  the  Summer  in  a  close  and 
fetid  laboratory  in  the  heart  of  a  great  city,  and 
against  a  sensation  of  a  less  material  color — the 
feeling  that  Adela  was  a  delightful  girl.  Still,  nat 
urally  a  great  talker,  he  celebrated  his  impressions 
in  a  generous  flow  of  good-humored  eloquence. 
Adela  resolved  within  herself  that  he  was  decidedly 
a  companion  for  the  open  air.  He  was  a  man  to 
make  use,  even  to  abuse,  of  the  wide  horizon  and 
the  high  ceiling  of  Nature.  The  freedom  of  his 
gestures,  the  sonority  of  his  voice,  the  keenness  of 
his  vision,  the  general  vivacity  of  his  manners, 
seemed  to  necessitate  and  to  justify  a  universal  ab 
sence  of  barriers.  They  crossed  the  stile,  and  waded 
through  the  long  grass  of  several  successive  mead 
ows,  until  the  ground  began  to  rise,  the  stony  sur 
faces  to  crop  through  the  turf,  when,  after  a  short 
ascent,  they  reached  a  broad  plateau,  covered  with 
boulders  and  shrubs,  which  lost  itself  on  one  side  in 
a  short,  steep  cliff,  whence  fields  and  marshes 
stretched  down  to  the  opposite  river;  and  on  the 


200 A  Landscape  Painter 

other,  in  scattered  clumps  of  pine  and  maple,  which 
gradually  thickened  and  multiplied,  until  the  hori 
zon  in  that  quarter  was  blue  with  a  long  line  of 
woods.  Here  was  both  sun  and  shade — the  unob 
structed  sky,  or  the  whispering  dome  of  a  circle  of 
pines.  Adela  led  the  way  to  a  sunny  seat  among 
the  rocks,  which  commanded  the  course  of  the  river, 
and  where  a  cluster  of  trees  would  lend  an  admoni 
tory  undertone  to  their  conversation. 

Before  long,  however,  its  muffled  eloquence  be 
came  rather  importunate,  and  Adela  remarked  upon 
the  essential  melancholy  of  the  phenomenon. 

"It  has  always  seemed  to  me,"  rejoined  Ludlow, 
"that  the  wind  in  the  pines  expresses  tolerably  well 
man's  sense  of  a  coming  change,  simply  as  a 
change." 

"Perhaps  it  does,"  said  Adela.  "The  pines  are 
forever  rustling,  and  men  are  forever  changing." 

"Yes,  but  they  can  only  be  said  to  express  it  when 
there  is  some  one  there  to  hear  them ;  and  more  es 
pecially  some  one  in  whose  life  a  change  is,  to  his 
own  knowledge,  going  to  take  place.  Then  they 
are  quite  prophetic.  Don't  you  know  Longfellow 
says  so?" 

"Yes,  I  know  Longfellow  says  so.  But  you  seem 
to  speak  from  your  own  feeling." 

"I  do." 

"Is  there  a  change  pending  in  your  life?'* 


A    Day   of  Days 201 

"Yes,  rather  an  important  one." 

"I  believe  that's  what  men  say  when  they  are 
going  to  be  married,"  said  Adela. 

"I'm  going  to  be  divorced,  rather.    I'm  going  to 
Europe." 

"Indeed!  soon?" 

"To-morrow,"  said  Ludlow,  after  an  instant's 
pause. 

"Oh!"  said  Adela.    "How  I  envy  you!" 

Ludlow.  who  sat  looking  over  the  cliff  and  toss 
ing  stones  down  into  the  plain,  observed  a  certain 
inequality  in  the  tone  of  his  companion's  two  ex 
clamations.  The  first  was  nature,  the  second  art. 
He  turned  his  eyes  upon  her,  but  she  had  turned  hers 
away  upon  the  distance.  Then,  for  a  moment,  he 
retreated  within  himself  and  thought.  He  rapidly 
surveyed  his  position.  Here  was  he,  Tom  Ludlow, 
a  hard-headed  son  of  toil,  without  fortune,  without 
credit,  without  antecedents,  whose  lot  was  cast  ex 
clusively  with  vulgar  males,  and  who  had  never  had 
a  mother,  a  sister  nor  a  well-bred  sweetheart  to  pitch 
his  voice  for  the  feminine  tympanum;  who  had 
seldom  come  nearer  an  indubitable  young  lady  than, 
in  a  favoring  crowd,  to  receive  a  mechanical  "thank 
you"  (as  if  he  were  a  policeman),  for  some  in 
geniously  provoked  service;  here  he  found  him 
self  up  to  his  neck  in  a  sudden  pastoral  with  the 
most  ladyish  young  woman  in  the  land.  That  it 


202  A  Landscape  Painter 

was  in  him  to  enjoy  the  society  of  such  a  woman 
(provided,  of  course,  she  were  not  a  fool), 
he  very  well  knew;  but  he  had  not  yet  sus 
pected  that  it  was  possible  for  him  (in  the  midst 
of  more  serious  cares)  to  obtain  it.  Was  he  now  to 
infer  that  this  final  gift  was  his — the  gift  of  pleasing 
women  who  were  worth  the  pleasing?  The  inference 
was  at  least  logical.  He  had  made  a  good  impres 
sion.  Why  else  should  a  modest  and  discerning 
girl  have  so  speedily  granted  him  her  favor?  It 
was  with  a  little  thrill  of  satisfaction  that  Ludlow 
reflected  upon  the  directness  of  his  course.  "It  all 
comes  back,"  he  said  to  himself,  "to  my  old  theory, 
that  a  process  can't  be  too  simple.  I  used  no  arts. 
In  such  an  enterprise  I  shouldn't  have  known  where 
to  begin.  It  was  my  ignorance  of  the  regulation 
method  that  served  me.  Women  like  a  gentleman, 
of  course;  but  they  like  a  man  better."  It  was  the 
little  touch  of  nature  he  had  discerned  in  Adela's 
tone  that  had  set  him  thinking ;  but  as  compared  with 
the  frankness  of  his  own  attitude  it  betrayed  after 
all  no  undue  emotion.  Ludlow  had  accepted  the 
fact  of  his  adaptability  to  the  idle  mood  of  a  culti 
vated  woman  in  a  thoroughly  rational  spirit,  and  he 
was  not  now  tempted  to  exaggerate  its  bearings. 
He  was  not  the  man  to  be  intoxicated  by  success — 
this  or  any  other.  "If  Miss  Moore,"  he  pursued, 
"is  so  wise — or  so  foolish — as  to  like  me  half  an 


A    Day   of   Days 203 

hour  for  what  I  am,  she  is  welcome.  Assuredly," 
he  added,  as  he  gazed  at  her  intelligent  profile,  "she 
will  not  like  me  for  what  I  am  not."  It  needs  a 
woman,  however,  far  more  intelligent  than  (thank 
heaven!)  most  women  are — more  intelligent,  cer 
tainly,  than  Adela  was — to  guard  her  happiness 
against  a  strong  man's  consistent  assumption  of  her 
intelligence;  and  doubtless  it  was  from  a  sense  of 
this  general  truth,  as  Ludlow  still  gazed,  he  felt  an 
emotion  of  manly  tenderness.  "I  wouldn't  offend 
her  for  the  world,"  he  thought.  Just  then,  Adela, 
conscious  of  his  gaze,  looked  about;  and  before  he 
knew  it,  Ludlow  had  repeated  aloud,  "Miss  Moore, 
I  wouldn't  offend  you  for  the  world." 

Adela  glanced  at  him  for  a  moment  with  a  little 
flush  that  subsided  into  a  smile.  "To  what  dreadful 
injury  is  that  the  prelude?"  she  asked. 

"It's  the  prelude  to  nothing.  It  refers  to  the  past 
— to  any  possible  displeasure  I  may  have  caused 
you." 

"Your  scruples  are  unnecessary,  Mr.  Ludlow.  If 
you  had  given  me  offence,  I  should  not  have  left  you 
to  apologize  for  it.  I  should  not  have  left  the  mat 
ter  to  occur  to  you  as  you  sat  dreaming  charitably 
in  the  sun." 

"What  would  you  have  done?" 

"Done?  nothing.  You  don't  imagine  I  would 
have  rebuked  you — or  snubbed  you — or  answered 


204 A  Landscape  Painter       

you  back,  I  take  it.  I  would  have  left  undone — 
what,  I  can't  tell  you.  Ask  yourself  what  I  have 
done.  I'm  sure  I  hardly  know  myself/'  said  Adela, 
with  some  intensity.  "At  all  events,  here  I  am 
sitting  with  you  in  the  fields,  as  if  you  were  a  friend 
of  years.  Why  do  you  speak  of  offence?"  And 
Adela  (an  uncommon  accident  with  her)  lost  com 
mand  of  her  voice,  which  trembled  ever  so  slightly. 
"What  an  odd  thought!  why  should  you  offend 
me?  Do  I  invite  it?"  Her  color  had  deepened 
again,  and  her  eyes  brightened.  She  had  forgotten 
herself,  and  before  speaking  had  not,  as  was  her 
wont,  sought  counsel  of  that  staunch  conservative, 
her  taste.  She  had  spoken  from  a  full  heart — a 
heart  which  had  been  filling  rapidly  since  the  outset 
of  their  walk  with  a  feeling  almost  passionate  in  its 
quality,  and  which  that  little  blast  of  prose  which 
had  brought  her  Ludlow's  announcement  of  his  de 
parture,  had  caused  to  overflow.  The  reader  may 
give  this  feeling  such  a  name  as  he  pleases.  We  will 
content  ourselves  with  saying  that  Adela  had  play 
ed  with  fire  so  effectually  that  she  had  been  scorched. 
The  slight  vehemence  of  the  speech  just  quoted  had 
covered  her  sensation  of  pain. 

"You  pull  one  up  rather  short,  Miss  Moore," 
said  Ludlow.  "A  man  says  the  best  he  can." 

Adela  made  no  reply.  For  a  moment  she  hung 
her  head.  Was  she  to  cry  out  because  she  was  hurt  ? 


A    Day   of  Days 205 

Was  she  to  introduce  her  injured  soul  as  an  imperti 
nent  third  into  the  company?  No!  Here  our  re 
served  and  contemplative  heroine  is  herself  again. 
Her  part  was  still  to  be  the  perfect  young  lady.  For 
our  own  part,  we  can  imagine  no  figure  more  be 
witching  than  that  of  the  perfect  young  lady  under 
these  circumstances ;  and  if  Adela  had  been  the  most 
accomplished  coquette  in  the  world  she  could  not 
have  assumed  a  more  becoming  expression  than  the 
air  of  languid  equanimity  which  now  covered  her 
features.  But  having  paid  this  generous  homage  to 
propriety,  she  felt  free  to  suffer.  Raising  her  eyes 
from  the  ground,  she  abruptly  addressed  her  com 
panion  with  this  injunction: 

"Mr.  Ludlow,"  said  she,  "tell  me  something  about 
yourself." 

Ludlow  burst  into  a  laugh.  "What  shall  I  tell 
you?" 

"Everything." 

"Everything?  Excuse  me,  I'm  not  such  a  fool. 
But  do  you  know  that's  a  delicious  request  you 
make?  I  suppose  I  ought  to  blush  and  hesitate; 
but  I  never  yet  blushed  or  hesitated  in  the  right 
place." 

"Very  good.  There  is  one  fact.  Continue.  Be 
gin  at  the  beginning." 

"Well,  let  me  see.  My  name  you  know.  I'm 
twenty-eight  years  old." 


206 A  Landscape  Painter 

"That's  the  end,"  said  Adela. 

"But  you  don't  want  the  history  of  my  babyhood, 
I  take  it.  I  imagine  that  I  was  a  very  big,  noisy  and 
ugly  baby:  what's  called  a  'splendid  infant/  My 
parents  were  poor,  and,  of  course,  honest.  They  be 
longed  to  a  very  different  set — or  'sphere',  I  suppose 
you  call  it — from  any  you  probably  know.  They 
were  working  people.  My  father  was  a  chemist  in 
a  small  way,  and  I  fancy  my  mother  was  rot  above 
using  her  hands  to  turn  a  penny.  But  although  I 
don't  remember  her,  I  am  sure  she  was  a  good,  sound 
woman ;  I  feel  her  occasionally  in  my  own  sinews.  I 
myself  have  been  at  work  all  my  life,  and  a  very 
good  worker  I  am,  let  me  tell  you.  I'm  not  patient, 
as  I  imagine  your  brother  to  be — although  I  have 
more  patience  than  you  might  suppose — but  I'm 
plucky.  If  you  think  I'm  over-egotistical,  remember 
'twas  you  began  it.  I  don't  know  whether  I'm 
clever,  and  I  don't  much  care;  that  word  is  used 
only  by  unpractical  people.  But  I'm  clear-headed, 
and  inquisitive,  and  enthusiastic.  That's  as  far  as  I 
can  describe  myself.  I  don't  know  anything  about 
my  character.  I  simply  suspect  I'm  a  pretty  good 
fellow.  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  grave  or  gay, 
lively  or  severe.  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  high- 
tempered  or  low-tempered.  I  don't  believe  I'm 
'high-toned.'  I  fancy  I'm  good-natured  enough, 
inasmuch  as  I'm  not  nervous.  I  should  not  be  at  all 


A    Day   of   Days  207 

surprised  to  discover  I  was  prodigiously  conceited; 
but  I'm  afraid  the  discovery  wouldn't  cut  me  down, 
much.  I'm  desperately  hard  to  snub,  I  know.  Oh, 
you  would  think  me  a  great  brute  if  you  knew  me. 
I  should  hesitate  to  say  whether  I  am  of  a  loving 
turn.  I  know  I'm  desperately  tired  of  a  number  of 
persons  who  are  very  fond  of  me;  I'm  afraid  I'm 
ungrateful.  Of  course  as  a  man  speaking  to  a 
woman,  there's  nothing  for  it  but  to  say  I'm  selfish ; 
but  I  hate  to  talk  about  such  windy  abstractions. 
In  the  way  of  positive  facts:  I'm  not  educated.  I 
know  no  Greek  and  very  little  Latin.  But  I  can 
honestly  say  that  first  and  last  I  have  read  a  great 
many  books — and,  thank  God,  I  have  a  memory! 
And  I  have  some  tastes,  too.  I'm  very  fond  of 
music.  I  have  a  good  old  voice  of  my  own :  that 
I  can't  help  knowing ;  and  I'm  not  one  to  be  bullied 
about  pictures.  Is  that  enough  ?  I'm  conscious  of  an 
utter  inability  to  say  anything  to  the  point.  To  put 
myself  in  a  nutshell,  I  suppose  I'm  simply  a  working 
man ;  I  have  his  virtues  and  I  have  his  defects.  I'm 
a  very  common  fellow." 

"Do  you  call  yourself  a  very  common  fellow  be 
cause  you  really  believe  yourself  to  be  one,  or  be 
cause  you  are  weakly  tempted  to  disfigure  your 
rather  flattering  catalogue  with  a  great  final 
blot?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.    You  show  more  subtlety 


208 A  Landscape  Painter 

in  that  one  question  than  I  have  shown  in  my  whole 
string  of  affirmations.  You  women  are  strong  on 
asking  witty  questions.  Seriously,  I  believe  I  am  a 
common  fellow.  I  wouldn't  make  the  admission  to 
every  one  though.  But  to  you,  Miss  Moore,  who 
sit  there  under  your  parasol  as  impartial  as  the 
Muse  of  History,  to  you  I  own  the  truth.  I'm  no 
man  of  genius.  There  is  something  I  miss;  some 
final  distinction  I  lack;  you  may  call  it  what  you 
please.  Perhaps  it's  humility.  Perhaps  you  can  find 
it  in  Ruskin,  somewhere.  Perhaps  it's  patience — 
perhaps  it's  imagination.  I'm  vulgar,  Miss  Moore. 
I'm  the  vulgar  son  of  vulgar  people.  I  use  the  word, 
of  course,  in  its  strictest  sense.  So  much  I  grant 
you  at  the  outset,  and  then  I  walk  ahead." 

"Have  you  any  sisters  ?" 

"Not  a  sister;  and  no  brothers,  nor  cousins,  nor 
uncles,  nor  aunts." 

"And  you  sail  for  Europe  to-morrow  ?" 

"To-morrow,  at  ten  o'clock." 

"To  be  away  how  long?" 

"As  long  as  I  possibly  can.  Five  years  if  pos 
sible." 

"What  do  you  expect  to  do  in  those  five  years?" 

"Study." 

"Nothing  but  study?" 

"It  will  all  come  back  to  that,  I  fancy.  I  hope  to 
enjoy  myself  reasonably,  and  to  look  at  the  world 


A   Day   of  Days 209 

as  I  go.    But  I  must  not  waste  time;  I'm  growing 
old." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  Berlin.  I  wanted  to  get  letters  from  your 
brother." 

"Have  you  money?    Are  you  well  off?" 
"Well  off?    Not  I,  no.    I'm  poor.    I  travel  on  a 
little  money  that  has  just  come  to  me  from  an  un 
expected  quarter :  an  old  debt  owing  my  father.    It 
will  take  me   to  Germany  and  keep  me   for  six 
months.    After  that  I  shall  work  my  way." 
"Are  you  happy  ?    Are  you  contented  ?" 
"Just  now  I'm  pretty  comfortable,  thank  you." 
"But  will  you  be  so  when  you  get  to  Berlin  ?" 
"I  don't  promise  to  be  contented;  but  I'm  pretty 
sure  to  be  happy." 

"Well!"  said  Adela,  "I  sincerely  hope  you  may 
be." 

"Amen !"  said  Ludlow. 

Of  what  more  was  said  at  this  moment,  no  record 
may  be  given.  The  reader  has  been  put  into  pos 
session  of  the  key  of  our  friends'  conversation; 
it  is  only  needful  to  say  that  substantially  upon  this 
key,  it  was  prolonged  for  half  an  hour  more.  As 
the  minutes  elapsed,  Adela  found  herself  drifting 
further  and  further  away  from  her  anchorage. 
When  at  last  she  compelled  herself  to  consult  her 
watch,  and  remind  her  companion  that  there  re- 


210  A  Landscape  Painter 

mained  but  just  time  enough  for  them  to  reach 
home,  in  anticipation  of  her  brother's  arrival,  she 
knew  that  she  was  rapidly  floating  seaward.  As  she 
descended  the  hill  at  her  companion's  side,  she  felt 
herself  suddenly  thrilled  by  an  acute  temptation. 
Her  first  instinct  was  to  close  her  eyes  upon  it,  in 
the  trust  that  when  she  opened  them  again  it  would 
have  vanished ;  but  she  found  that  it  was  not  to  be 
so  uncompromisingly  dismissed.  It  importuned  her 
so  effectually,  that  before  she  had  walked  a  mile 
homeward,  she  had  succumbed  to  it,  or  had  at  least 
given  it  the  pledge  of  that  quickening  of  the  heart 
which  accompanies  a  bold  resolution.  This  little 
sacrifice  allowed  her  no  breath  for  idle  words,  and 
she  accordingly  advanced  with  a  bent  and  listening 
head.  Ludlow  marched  along,  with  no  apparent 
diminution  of  his  habitual  buoyancy  of  mien,  talking 
as  fast  and  as  loud  as  at  the  outset.  He  adventured 
a  prophecy  that  Mr.  Moore  would  not  have  re 
turned,  and  charged  Adela  with  a  humorous  message 
of  regrets.  Adela  had  begun  by  wondering  whether 
the  approach  of  their  separation  had  wrought  within 
him  any  sentimental  depression  at  all  commensurate 
with  her  own,  with  that  which  sealed  her  lips  and 
weighed  upon  her  heart ;  and  now  she  was  debating 
as  to  whether  his  express  declaration  that  he  felt 
"awfully  blue"  ought  necessarily  to  remove  her 
doubts.  Ludlow  followed  up  this  declaration  with  a 


A   Day   of   Days  211 

very  pretty  review  of  the  morning,  and  a  sober 
valedictory  which,  whether  intensely  felt  or  not, 
struck  Adela  as  at  least  nobly  bare  of  flimsy  com 
pliments.  He  might  be  a  common  fellow — but  he 
was  certainly  a  very  uncommon  one.  When  they 
reached  the  garden  gate,  it  was  with  a  fluttering 
heart  that  Adela  scanned  the  premises  for  some 
accidental  sign  of  her  brother's  presence.  She  felt 
that  there  would  be  an  especial  fitness  in  his  not 
having  returned.  She  led  the  way  in.  The  hall  table 
was  bare  of  his  hat  and  overcoat.  The  only  object 
it  displayed  was  Mr.  Perkins's  card,  which  Adela 
had  deposited  there  on  her  exit.  All  that  was  rep 
resented  by  that  little  white  ticket  seemed  a  thousand 
miles  away.  Finally,  Mr.  Moore's  absence  from  his 
study  was  conclusive  against  his  return. 

As  Adela  went  back  thence  into  the  drawing- 
room,  she  simply  shook  her  head  at  Ludlow,  who 
was  standing  before  the  fire-place;  and  as  she  did 
so,  she  caught  her  reflection  in  the  mantel-glass. 
"Verily,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I  have  travelled  far." 
She  had  pretty  well  unlearned  the  repose  of  the 
Veres  of  Vere.  But  she  was  to  break  with  it  still 
more  completely.  It  was  with  a  singular  hardihood 
that  she  prepared  to  redeem  the  little  pledge  which 
had  been  extorted  from  her  on  her  way  home.  She 
felt  that  there  was  no  trial  to  which  her  generosity 
might  now  be  called  which  she  would  not  hail  with 


212  A  Landscape  Painter 

enthusiasm.  Unfortunately,  her  generosity  was  not 
likely  to  be  challenged;  although  she  nevertheless 
had  the  satisfaction  of  assuring  herself  at  this  mo 
ment  that,  like  the  mercy  of  the  Lord,  it  was  infinite. 
Should  she  satisfy  herself  of  her  friend's?  or  should 
she  leave  it  delightfully  uncertain  ?  These  had  been 
the  terms  of  what  has  been  called  her  temptation, 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  But  inasmuch  as  Adela  was 
by  no  means  strictly  engaged  in  the  pursuit  of  pleas 
ure,  and  as  the  notion  of  a  grain  of  suffering  was 
by  no  means  repugnant  to  her,  she  had  resolved  to 
obtain  possession  of  the  one  essential  fact  of  her 
case,  even  though  she  should  be  at  heavy  costs  to 
maintain  it. 

"Well,  I  have  very  little  time,"  said  Ludlow; 
"I  must  get  my  dinner  and  pay  my  bill  and  drive 
to  the  train."  And  he  put  out  his  hand. 

Adela  gave  him  her  own,  and  looked  him  full  in 
the  eyes.  "You  are  in  a  great  hurry/'  said  she. 

"It's  not  I  who  am  in  a  hurry.  It's  my  con 
founded  destiny.  It's  the  train  and  the  steamer." 

"If  you  really  wished  to  stay  you  wouldn't  be 
bullied  by  the  train  and  the  steamer." 

"Very  true— very  true.  But  do  I  really  wish  to 
stay?" 

"That's  the  question.  That's  what  I  want  to 
know." 

"You  ask  difficult  questions,  Miss  Moore." 


A    Day   of   Days 218 

"I  mean  they  shall  be  difficult." 

"Then,  of  course,  you  are  prepared  to  answer 
difficult  ones." 

"I  don't  know  that  that's  of  course,  but  I  am." 

"Well,  then,  do  you  wish  me  to  stay  ?  All  I  have 
to  do  is  to  throw  down  my  hat,  sit  down  and  fold 
my  arms  for  twenty  minutes.  I  lose  my  train  and 
my  ship.  I  stay  in  America,  instead  of  going  to 
Europe." 

"I  have  thought  of  all  that." 

"I  don't  mean  to  say  it's  a  great  deal.  There  are 
pleasures  and  pleasures." 

"Yes,  and  especially  the  former.  It  is  a  great 
deal." 

"And  you  invite  me  to  accept  it?" 

"No;  I  ought  not  to  say  that.  What  I  ask  of 
you  is  whether,  if  I  should  so  invite  you,  you  would 
say  'yes/  " 

"That  makes  the  matter  very  easy  for  you,  Miss 
Moore.  What  attractions  do  you  hold  out?" 

"I  hold  out  nothing  whatever,  sir." 

"I  suppose  that  means  a  great  deal." 

"It  means  what  it  seems  to  mean." 

"Well,  you  are  certainly  a  most  interesting 
woman,  Miss  Moore — a  charming  woman." 

"Why  don't  you  call  me  *  fascinating'  at  once,  and 
bid  me  good  morning?" 

"I  don't  know  but  that  I  shall  have  to  come  to 


214 A  Landscape  Painter 

that.  But  I  will  give  you  no  answer  that  leaves  you 
at  an  advantage.  Ask  me  to  stay — command  me  to 
stay,  if  that  suits  you  better — and  I  will  see  how 
it  sounds.  Come,  you  must  not  trifle  with  a  man." 
He  still  held  Adela's  hand,  and  they  had  been  looking 
frankly  into  each  other's  eyes.  He  paused,  waiting 
for  an  answer. 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Ludlow,"  said  Adela.  "God  bless 
you!"  And  she  was  about  to  withdraw  her  hand; 
but  he  held  it. 

"Are  we  friends?"  said  he. 

Adela  gave  a  little  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 
"Friends  of  "three  hours." 

Ludlow  looked  at  her  with  some  sternness.  "Our 
parting  could  at  best  hardly  have  been  sweet,"  said 
he;  "but  why  should  you  make  it  bitter,  Miss 
Moore?" 

"If  it's  bitter,  why  should  you  try  to  change  it?" 

"Because  I  don't  like  bitter  things." 

Ludlow  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  truth — that 
truth  of  which  the  reader  has  had  a  glimpse — and 
he  stood  there  at  once  thrilled  and  annoyed.  He  had 
both  a  heart  and  a  conscience.  "It's  not  my  fault," 
he  cried  to  the  latter;  but  he  was  unable  to  add,  in 
all  consistency,  that  it  was  his  misfortune.  It  would 
be  very  heroic,  very  poetic,  very  chivalric,  to  lose  his 
steamer,  and  he  felt  that  he  could  do  so  for  sufficient 
cause — at  the  suggestion  of  a  fact.  But  the  motive 


A    Day   of   Days 215 

here  was  less  than  a  fact — an  idea ;  less  than  an  idea 
— a  fancy.  "It's  a  very  pretty  little  romance  as  it 
is,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Why  spoil  it?  She  is  an 
admirable  girl:  to  have  learned  that  is  enough  for 
me."  He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips,  pressed  them 
to  it,  dropped  it,  reached  the  door  and  bounded  out 
of  the  garden  gate. 
The  day  was  ended. 


IV 
A    MOST   EXTRAORDINARY    CASE 


A  MOST  EXTRAORDINARY  CASE 

LATE  in  the  spring  of  the  year  1865,  just  as  the 
war  had  come  to  a  close,  a  young  invalid  officer  lay 
in  bed  in  one  of  the  uppermost  chambers  of  one 
of  the  great  New  York  hotels.  His  meditations 
were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a  waiter,  who 
handed  him  a  card  superscribed  Mrs.  Samuel  Mason, 
and  bearing  on  its  reverse  the  following  words  in 
pencil :  "Dear  Colonel  Mason,  I  have  only  just  heard 
of  your  being  here,  ill  and  alone.  It's  too  dreadful. 
Do  you  remember  me?  Will  you  see  me?  If  you 
do,  I  think  you  will  remember  me.  I  insist  on  com 
ing  up.  M.  M." 

Mason  was  undressed,  unshaven,  weak,  and 
feverish.  His  ugly  little  hotel  chamber  was  in  a 
state  of  confusion  which  had  not  even  the  merit  of 
being  picturesque.  Mrs.  Mason's  card  was  at  once 
a  puzzle  and  a  heavenly  intimation  of  comfort.  But 
all  that  it  represented  was  so  dim  to  the  young  man's 

219 


220  A  Landscape  Painter 

enfeebled  perception  that  it  took  him  some  moments 
to  collect  his  thoughts. 

"It's  a  lady,  sir,"  said  the  waiter,  by  way  of  assist 
ing  him. 

"Is  she  young  or  old  ?"  asked  Mason. 

"Well,  sir,  she's  a  little  of  both." 

"I  can't  ask  a  lady  to  come  up  here,"  groaned 
the  invalid. 

"Upon  my  word,  sir,  you  look  beautiful,"  said 
the  waiter.  "They  like  a  sick  man.  And  I  see 
she's  of  your  own  name,"  continued  Michael,  in 
whom  constant  service  had  bred  great  frankness  of 
speech;  "the  more  shame  to  her  for  not  coming 
before." 

Colonel  Mason  concluded  that,  as  the  visit  had 
been  of  Mrs.  Mason's  own  seeking,  he  would  re 
ceive  her  without  more  ado.  "If  she  doesn't  mind 
it,  I'm  sure  I  needn't,"  said  the  poor  fellow,  who 
hadn't  the  strength  to  be  over-punctilious.  So  in  a 
very  few  moments  his  visitor  was  ushered  up  to  his 
bedside.  He  saw  before  him  a  handsome,  middle- 
aged  blonde  woman,  stout  of  figure,  and  dressed 
in  the  height  of  the  fashion,  who  displayed  no  other 
embarrassment  than  such  as  was  easily  explained 
by  the  loss  of  breath  consequent  on  the  ascent  of 
six  flights  of  stairs. 

"Do  you  remember  me?"  she  asked,  taking  the 
young  man's  hand. 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        221 

He  lay  back  on  his  pillow,  and  looked  at  her. 
"You  used  to  be  my  aunt, — my  aunt  Maria,"  he 
said. 

"I'm  your  aunt  Maria  still,"  she  answered.  "It's 
very  good  of  you  not  to  have  forgotten  me." 

"It's  very  good  of  you  not  to  have  forgotten  me," 
said  Mason,  in  a  tone  which  betrayed  a  deeper  feel 
ing  than  the  wish  to  return  a  civil  speech. 

"Dear  me,  you've  had  the  war  and  a  hundred 
dreadful  things.  I've  been  living  in  Europe,  you 
know.  Since  my  return  I've  been  living  in  the 
country,  in  your  uncle's  old  house  on  the  river,  of 
which  the  lease  had  just  expired  when  I  came  home. 
I  came  to  town  yesterday  on  business,  and  acci 
dentally  heard  of  your  condition  and  your  where 
abouts.  I  knew  you'd  gone  into  the  army,  and  I 
had  been  wondering  a  dozen  times  what  had  become 
of  you,  and  whether  you  wouldn't  turn  up  now  that 
the  war's  at  last  over.  Of  course  I  didn't  lose  a 
moment  in  coming  to  you.  I'm  so  sorry  for  you." 
Mrs.  Mason  looked  about  her  for  a  seat.  The 
chairs  were  encumbered  with  odds  and  ends  be 
longing  to  her  nephew's  wardrobe  and  to  his  equip 
ment,  and  with  the  remnants  of  his  last  repast. 
The  good  lady  surveyed  the  scene  with  the  beau 
tiful  mute  irony  of  compassion. 

The  young  man  lay  watching  her  comely  face  in 
delicious  submission  to  whatever  form  of  utterance 


222  A  Landscape  Painter 

this  feeling  might  take.  "You're  the  first  woman — 
to  call  a  woman — I've  seen  in  I  don't  know  how 
many  months,"  he  said,  contrasting  her  appearance 
with  that  of  his  room,  and  reading  her  thoughts. 

"I  should  suppose  so.  I  mean  to  be  as  good  as  a 
dozen.  She  disembarrassed  one  of  the  chairs,  and 
brought  it  to  the  bed.  Then,  seating  herself,  she 
ungloved  one  of  her  hands,  and  laid  it  softly  on 
the  young  man's  wrist.  "What  a  great  full-grown 
young  fellow  you've  become !"  she  pursued.  "Now, 
tell  me,  are  you  very  ill?" 

"You  must  ask  the  doctor/'  said  Mason.  "I 
actually  don't  know.  I'm  extremely  uncomfortable, 
but  I  suppose  it's  partly  my  circumstances." 

"I've  no  doubt  it's  more  than  half  your  circum 
stances.  I've  seen  the  doctor.  Mrs.  Van  Zandt  is 
an  old  friend  of  mine ;  and  when  I  come  to  town,  I 
always  go  to  see  her.  It  was  from  her  I  learned 
this  morning  that  you  were  here  in  this  state.  We 
had  begun  by  rejoicing  over  the  new  prospects  of 
peace;  and  from  that,  of  course,  we  had  got  to 
lamenting  the  numbers  of  young  men  who  are  to 
enter  upon  it  with  lost  limbs  and  shattered  health. 
It  happened  that  Mrs.  Van  Zandt  mentioned  several 
of  her  husband's  patients  as  examples,  and  yourself 
among  the  number.  You  were  an  excellent  young 
man,  miserably  sick,  without  family  or  friends,  and 
with  no  asylum  but  a  suffocating  little  closet  in  a 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        228 

noisy  hotel.  You  may  imagine  that  I  pricked  up 
my  ears,  and  asked  your  baptismal  name.  Dr.  Van 
Zandt  came  in,  and  told  me.  Your  name  is  luckily 
an  uncommon  one ;  it's  absurd  to  suppose  that  there 
could  be  two  Ferdinand  Masons.  In  short,  I  felt 
that  you  were  my  husband's  brother's  child,  and  that 
at  last  I  too  might  have  my  little  turn  at  hero-nurs 
ing.  The  little  that  the  Doctor  knew  of  your  history 
agreed  with  the  little  that  I  knew,  though  I  confess 
I  was  sorry  to  hear  that  you  had  never  spoken  of 
our  relationship.  But  why  should  you?  At  all 
events  you've  got  to  acknowledge  it  now.  I  regret 
your  not  having  said  something  about  it  before, 
only  because  the  Doctor  might  have  brought  us  to 
gether  a  month  ago,  and  you  would  now  have  been 
well." 

"It  will  take  me  more  than  a  month  to  get  well," 
said  Mason,  feeling  that,  if  Mrs.  Mason  was  mean 
ing  to  exert  herself  on  his  behalf,  she  should  know 
the  real  state  of  the  case.  "I  never  spoke  of  you, 
because  I  had  quite  lost  sight  of  you.  I  fancied 
you  were  still  in  Europe;  and  indeed,"  he  added, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  "I  heard  that  you  had 
married  again." 

"Of  course  you  did,"  said  Mrs.  Mason,  placidly. 
"I  used  to  hear  it  once  a  month  myself.  But  I 
had  a  much  better  right  to  fancy  you  married. 
Thank  Heaven,  however,  there's  nothing  of  that 


224  A  Landscape  Painter 

sort  between  us.  We  can  each  do  as  we  please.  I 
promise  to  cure  you  in  a  month,  in  spite  of  yourself." 

"What's  your  remedy?"  asked  the  young  man, 
with  a  smile  very  courteous,  considering  how  scep 
tical  it  was. 

"My  first  remedy  is  to  take  you  out  of  this  hor 
rible  hole.  I  talked  it  all  over  with  Dr.  Van  Zandt. 
He  says  you  must  get  into  the  country.  Why,  my 
dear  boy,  this  is  enough  to  kill  you  outright, — one 
Broadway  outside  of  your  window  and  another  out 
side  of  your  door!  Listen  to  me.  My  house  is 
directly  on  the  river,  and  only  two  hours'  journey 
by  rail.  You  know  I've  no  children.  My  only 
companion  is  my  niece,  Caroline  Hofmann.  You 
shall  come  and  stay  with  us  until  you  are  as  strong 
as  you  need  be, — if  it  takes  a  dozen  years.  You 
shall  have  sweet,  cool  air,  and  proper  food,  and 
decent  attendance,  and  the  devotion  of  a  sensible 
woman.  I  shall  not  listen  to  a  word  of  objection. 
You  shall  do  as  you  please,  get  up  when  you  please, 
dine  when  you  please,  go  to  bed  when  you  please, 
and  say  what  you  please.  I  shall  ask  nothing  of  you 
but  to  let  yourself  be  very  dearly  cared  for.  Do 
you  remember  how,  when  you  were  a  boy  at  school, 
after  your  father's  death,  you  were  taken  with 
measles,  and  your  uncle  had  you  brought  to  our 
own  house?  I  helped  to  nurse  you  myself,  and  I 
remember  what  nice  manners  you  had  in  the  very 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        225 

midst  of  your  measles.  Your  uncle  was  very  fond 
of  you;  and  if  he  had  had  any  considerable  property 
of  his  own,  I  know  he  would  have  remembered  you 
in  his  will.  But,  of  course,  he  couldn't  leave  away 
his  wife's  money.  What  I  wish  to  do  for  you  is  a 
very  small  part  of  what  he  would  have  done,  if  he 
had  only  lived,  and  heard  of  your  gallantry  and 
your  sufferings.  So  it's  settled.  I  shall  go  home 
this  afternoon.  To-morrow  morning  I  shall  despatch 
my  man-servant  to  you  with  instructions.  He's  an 
Englishman.  He  thoroughly  knows  his  business, 
and  he  will  put  up  your  things,  and  save  you  every 
particle  of  trouble.  You've  only  to  let  yourself  be 
dressed,  and  driven  to  the  train.  I  shall,  of  course, 
meet  you  at  your  journey's  end.  Now  don't  tell  me 
you're  not  strong  enough." 

"I  feel  stronger  at  this  moment  than  I've  felt  in 
a  dozen  weeks,"  said  Mason.  "It's  useless  for  me 
to  attempt  to  thank  you." 

"Quite  useless.  I  shouldn't  listen  to  you.  And 
I  suppose,"  added  Mrs.  Mason,  looking  over  the 
bare  walls  and  scanty  furniture  of  the  room,  "you 
pay  a  fabulous  price  for  this  bower  of  bliss.  Do  you 
need  money?" 

The  young  man  shook  his  head. 

"Very  well  then,"  resumed  Mrs.  Mason,  con 
clusively,  "from  this  moment  you're  in  my 
hands." 


226 A  Landscape  Painter    

The  young  man  lay  speechless  from  the  very 
fulness  of  his  heart;  but  he  strove  by  the  pressure 
of  his  fingers  to  give  her  some  assurance  of  his 
gratitude.  His  companion  nose,  and  lingered  beside 
him,  drawing  on  her  glove,  and  smiling  quietly  with 
the  look  of  a  long-baffled  philanthropist  who  has  at 
last  discovered  a  subject  of  infinite  capacity.  Poor 
Ferdinand's  weary  visage  reflected  her  smile. 
Finally,  after  the  lapse  of  years,  he  too  was  being 
cared  for.  He  let  his  head  sink  into  the  pillow,  and 
silently  inhaled  the  perfume  of  her  sober  elegance 
and  her  cordial  good-nature.  He  felt  like  taking 
her  dress  in  his  hand,  and  asking  her  not  to  leave 
him, — now  that  solitude  would  be  bitter.  His  eyes, 
I  suppose,  betrayed  this  touching  apprehension, — 
doubly  touching  in  a  war- wasted  young  officer.  As 
she  prepared  to  bid  him  farewell,  Mrs.  Mason 
stooped,  and  kissed  his  forehead.  He  listened  to 
the  rustle  of  her  dress  across  the  carpet,  to  the  gentle 
closing  of  the  door,  and  to  her  retreating  footsteps. 
And  then,  giving  way  to  his  weakness,  he  put  his 
hands  to  his  face,  and  cried  like  a  homesick  school 
boy.  He  had  been  reminded  of  the  exquisite  side 
of  life. 

Matters  went  forward  as  Mrs.  Mason  had  ar 
ranged  them.  At  six  o'clock  on  the  following  eve 
ning  Ferdinand  found  himself  deposited  at  one  of 
the  way  stations  of  the  Hudson  River  Railroad,  ex- 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        227 

hausted  by  his  journey,  and  yet  excited  at  the  pros 
pect  of  its  drawing  to  a  close.  Mrs.  Mason  was  in 
waiting  in  a  low  basket-phaeton,  with  a  magazine 
of  cushions  and  wrappings.  Ferdinand  transferred 
himself  to  her  side,  and  they  drove  rapidly  home 
ward.  Mrs.  Mason's  house  was  a  cottage  of  liberal 
make,  with  a  circular  lawn,  a  sinuous  avenue,  and 
a  well-grown  plantation  of  shrubbery.  As  the  phae 
ton  drew  up  before  the  porch,  a  young  lady  appeared 
in  the  doorway.  Mason  will  be  forgiven  if  he  con 
sidered  himself  presented  ex  officio,  as  I  may  say, 
to  this  young  lady.  Before  he  really  knew  it,  and 
in  the  absence  of  the  servant,  who,  under  Mrs. 
Mason's  directions,  was  busy  in  the  background  with 
his  trunk,  he  had  availed  himself  of  her  proffered 
arm,  and  had  allowed  her  to  assist  him  through  the 
porch,  across  the  hall,  and  into  the  parlor,  where 
she  graciously  consigned  him  to  a  sofa  which,  for 
his  especial  use,  she  had  caused  to  be  wheeled  up 
before  a  fire  kindled  for  his  especial  comfort.  He 
was  unable,  however,  to  take  advantage  of  her  good 
offices.  Prudence  dictated  that  without  further 
delay  he  should  betake  himself  to  his  room. 

On  the  morning  after  his  arrival  he  got  up  early, 
and  made  an  attempt  to  be  present  at  breakfast; 
but  his  strength  failed  him,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
dress  at  his  leisure,  and  content  himself  with  a 
simple  transition  from  his  bed  to  his  arm-chair. 


228  A  Landscape  Painter 

The  chamber  assigned  him  was  designedly  on  the 
ground-floor,  so  that  he  was  spared  the  trouble  of 
measuring  his  strength  with  the  staircase, — a  charm 
ing  room,  brightly  carpeted  and  upholstered,  and 
marked  by  a  certain  fastidious  freshness  which  be 
trayed  the  uncontested  dominion  of  women.  It  had 
a  broad  high  window,  draped  in  chintz  and  crisp 
muslin  and  opening  upon  the  greensward  of  the 
lawn.  At  this  window,  wrapped  in  his  dressing- 
gown,  and  lost  in  the  embrace  of  the  most  unresist 
ing  of  arm-chairs,  he  slowly  discussed  his  simple 
repast.  Before  long  his  hostess  made  her  appear 
ance  on  the  lawn  outside  the  window.  As  this 
quarter  of  the  house  was  covered  with  warm  sun 
shine,  Mason  ventured  to  open  the  window  and  talk 
to  her,  while  she  stood  out  on  the  grass  beneath  her 
parasol. 

"It's  time  to  think  of  your  physician,"  she  said. 
"You  shall  choose  for  yourself.  The  great  physician 
here  is  Dr.  Gregory,  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school. 
We  have  had  him  but  once,  for  my  niece  and  I 
have  the  health  of  a  couple  of  dairy-maids.  On 
that  one  occasion  he — well,  he  made  a  fool  of  him 
self.  His  practice  is  among  the  'old  families/  and 
he  only  knows  how  to  treat  certain  old-fashioned, 
obsolete  complaints.  Anything  brought  about  by 
the  war  would  be  quite  out  of  his  range.  And  then 
he  vacillates,  and  talks  about  his  own  maladies  a  lui. 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        229 

And,  to  tell  the  truth,  we  had  a  little  repartee  which 
makes  our  relations  somewhat  ambiguous." 

"I  see  he  would  never  do,"  said  Mason,  laughing. 
"But  he's  not  your  only  physician?" 

"No:  there  is  a  young  man,  a  newcomer,  a  Dr. 
Knight,  whom  I  don't  know,  but  of  whom  I've  heard 
very  good  things.  I  confess  that  I  have  a 
prejudice  in  favor  of  the  young  men.  Dr.  Knight 
has  a  position  to  establish,  and  I  suppose  he's 
likely  to  be  especially  attentive  and  careful.  I 
believe,  moreover,  that  he's  been  an  army  sur 
geon/' 

"I  knew  a  man  of  his  name,"  said  Mason.  "I 
wonder  if  this  is  he.  His  name  was  Horace  Knight, 
— 3,  light-haired,  near-sighted  man." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Mason;  "perhaps 
Caroline  knows."  She  retreated  a  few  steps,  and 
called  to  an  upper  window:  "Caroline,  what's  Dr. 
Knight's  first  name?" 

Mason  listened  to  Miss  Hofmann's  answer, — 
"I  haven't  the  least  idea." 

"Is  it  Horace?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Is  he  light  or  dark?" 

"I've  never  seen  him." 

"Is  he  near-sighted?" 

"How  in  the  world  should  I  know?" 

"I  fancy  he's  as  good  as  any  one,"  said  Ferdinand. 


230 A  Landscape  Painter 

"With  you,  my  dear  aunt,  what  does  the  doctor 
matter?" 

Mrs.  Mason  accordingly  sent  for  Dr.  Knight, 
who,  on  arrival,  turned  out  to  be  her  nephew's  old 
acquaintance.  Although  the  young  men  had  been 
united  by  no  greater  intimacy  than  the  superficial 
comradeship  resulting  from  a  winter  in  neighboring 
quarters,  they  were  very  well  pleased  to  come  to 
gether  again.  Horace  Knight  was  a  young  man 
of  good  birth,  good  looks,  good  faculties,  and  good 
intentions,  who,  after  a  three  years'  practice  of  sur 
gery  in  the  army,  had  undertaken  to  push  his  for 
tune  in  Mrs.  Mason's  neighborhood.  His  mother,  a 
widow  with  a  small  income,  had  recently  removed  to 
the  country  for  economy,  and  her  son  had  been 
unwilling  to  leave  her  to  live  alone.  The  adjacent 
country,  moreover,  offered  a  promising  field  for  a 
man  of  energy, — a  field  well  stocked  with  large 
families  of  easy  income  and  of  those  conservative 
habits  which  lead  people  to  make  much  of  the  cares 
of  a  physician.  The  local  practitioner  had  survived 
the  glory  of  his  prime,  and  was  not,  perhaps,  entirely 
guiltless  of  Mrs.  Mason's  charge,  that  he  had  not 
kept  up  with  the  progress  of  the  "new  diseases." 
The  world,  in  fact,  was  getting  too  new  for  him, 
as  well  as  for  his  old  patients.  He  had  had  money 
invested  in  the  South, — precious  sources  of  revenue, 
which  the  war  had  swallowed  up  at  a  gulp ;  he  had 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        231 

grown  frightened  and  nervous  and  querulous;  he 
had  lost  his  presence  of  mind  and  his  spectacles  in 
several  important  conjunctures ;  he  had  been  re 
peatedly  and  distinctly  fallible ;  a  vague  dissatisfac 
tion  pervaded  the  breasts  of  his  patrons;  he  was 
without  competitors :  in  short,  fortune  was  propi 
tious  to  Dr.  Knight.  Mason  remembered  the  young 
physician  only  as  a  good-humored,  intelligent  com 
panion;  but  he  soon  had  reason  to  believe  that  his 
medical  skill  would  leave  nothing  to  be  desired.  He 
arrived  rapidly  at  a  clear  understanding  of  Ferdi 
nand's  case ;  he  asked  intelligent  questions,  and  gave 
simple  and  definite  instructions.  The  disorder  was 
deeply  seated  and  virulent,  but  there  was  no  appar 
ent  reason  why  unflinching  care  and  prudence  should 
not  subdue  it. 

"Your  strength  is  very  much  reduced,"  he  said, 
as  he  took  his  hat  and  gloves  to  go;  "but  I  should 
say  you  had  an  excellent  constitution.  It  seems  to 
me,  however, — if  you  will  pardon  me  for  saying  so, 
— to  be  partly  your  own  fault  that  you  have  fallen 
so  low.  You  have  opposed  no  resistance;  you 
haven't  cared  to  get  well." 

"I  confess  that  I  haven't, — particularly.  But  I 
don't  see  how  you  should  know  it." 

"Why  it's  obvious." 

"Well,  it  was  natural  enough.  Until  Mrs.  Mason 
discovered  me,  I  hadn't  a  friend  in  the  world.  I 


232 A  Landscape  Painter 

had  become  demoralized  by  solitude.  I  had  almost 
forgotten  the  difference  between  sickness  and  health. 
I  had  nothing  before  my  eyes  to  remind  me  in  tan 
gible  form  of  that  great  mass  of  common  human 
interests  for  the  sake  of  which — under  whatever 
name  he  may  disguise  the  impulse — a  man  continues 
in  health  and  recovers  from  disease.  I  had  for 
gotten  that  I  ever  cared  for  books  or  ideas,  or 
anything  but  the  preservation  of  my  miserable  car 
cass.  My  carcass  had  become  quite  too  miserable 
to  be  an  object  worth  living  for.  I  was  losing 
time  and  money  at  an  appalling  rate ;  I  was  getting 
worse  rather  than  better;  and  I  therefore  gave  up 
resistance.  It  seemed  better  to  die  easy  than  to 
die  hard.  I  put  it  all  in  the  past  tense,  because 
within  these  three  days  I've  become  quite  another 
man." 

"I  wish  to  Heaven  I  could  have  heard  of  you/' 
said  Knight.  "I  would  have  made  you  come  home 
with  me,  if  I  could  have  done  nothing  else.  It  was 
certainly  not  a  rose-colored  prospect;  but  what  do 
you  say  now?"  he  continued,  looking  around  the 
room.  "I  should  say  that  at  the  present  moment 
rose-color  was  the  prevailing  hue." 

Mason  assented  with  an  eloquent  smile. 

"I  congratulate  you  from  my  heart.  Mrs.  Mason 
— if  you  don't  mind  my  speaking  of  her — is  so  thor 
oughly  (and,  I  should  suppose,  incorrigibly)  good- 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        233 

natured,  that  it's  quite  a  surprise  to  find  her  ex 
tremely  sensible." 

"Yes;  and  so  resolute  and  sensible  in  her  better 
moments,"  said  Ferdinand,  "that  it's  quite  a  surprise 
to  find  her  good-natured.  She's  a  fine  woman." 

"But  I  should  say  that  your  especial  blessing  was 
your  servant.  He  looks  as  if  he  had  come  out  of 
an  English  novel." 

"My  especial  blessing!  You  haven't  seen  Miss 
Hofmann,  then?" 

"Yes :  I  met  her  in  the  hall.  She  looks  as  if  she 
had  come  out  of  an  American  novel.  I  don't  know 
that  that's  great  praise;  but,  at  all  events,  I  make 
her  come  out  of  it." 

"You're  bound  in  honor,  then/'  said  Mason, 
laughing,  "to  put  her  into  another." 

Mason's  conviction  of  his  newly  made  happiness 
needed  no  enforcement  at  the  Doctor's  hands.  He 
felt  that  it  would  be  his  own  fault  if  these  were 
not  among  the  most  delightful  days  of  his  life.  He 
resolved  to  give  himself  up  without  stint  to  his  im 
pressions, — utterly  to  vegetate.  His  illness  alone 
would  have  been  a  sufficient  excuse  for  a  long  term 
of  intellectual  laxity;  but  Mason  had  other  good 
reasons  besides.  For  the  past  three  years  he  had 
been  stretched  without  intermission  on  the  rack  of 
duty.  Although  constantly  exposed  to  hard  service, 
it  had  been  his  fortune  never  to  receive  a  serious 


234  A  Landscape  Painter 

wound;  and,  until  his  health  broke  down,  he  had 
taken  fewer  holidays  than  any  officer  I  ever  heard 
of.  With  an  abundance  of  a  certain  kind  of  equa 
nimity  and  self-control, — a  faculty  of  ready  self- 
adaptation  to  the  accomplished  fact,  in  any  direc 
tion, — he  was  yet  in  his  innermost  soul  a  singularly 
nervous,  over-scrupulous  person.  On  the  few  occa 
sions  when  he  had  been  absent  from  the  scene  of  his 
military  duties,  although  duly  authorized  and  war 
ranted  in  the  act,  he  had  suffered  so  acutely  from 
the  apprehension  that  something  was  happening,  or 
was  about  to  happen,  which  not  to  have  witnessed 
or  to  have  had  a  hand  in  would  be  matter  of  eternal 
mortification,  that  he  can  be  barely  said  to  have 
enjoyed  his  recreation.  The  sense  of  lost  time  was, 
moreover,  his  perpetual  bugbear, — the  feeling  that 
precious  hours  were  now  fleeting  uncounted,  which 
in  more  congenial  labors  would  suffice  almost  for  the 
building  of  a  monument  more  lasting  than  brass. 
This  feeling  he  strove  to  propitiate  as  much  as  pos 
sible  by  assiduous  reading  and  study  in  the  interval 
of  his  actual  occupations.  I  cite  the  fact  merely 
as  an  evidence  of  the  uninterrupted  austerity  of  his 
life  for  a  long  time  before  he  fell  sick.  I  might 
triple  this  period,  indeed,  by  a  glance  at  his  college 
years,  and  at  certain  busy  months  which  intervened 
between  this  close  of  his  youth  and  the  opening  of 
the  war.  Mason  had  always  worked.  He  was  fond 


A  Most  'Extraordinary  Case        235 

of  work  to  begin  with;  and,  in  addition,  the  com 
plete  absence  of  family  ties  had  allowed  him  to  fol 
low  his  tastes  without  obstruction  or  diversion. 
This  circumstance  had  been  at  once  a  great  gain  to 
him  and  a  serious  loss.  He  reached  his  twenty- 
seventh  year  a  very  accomplished  scholar,  as  scholars 
go,  but  a  great  dunce  in  certain  social  matters.  He 
was  quite  ignorant  of  all  those  lighter,  more  evanes 
cent  forms  of  conviviality  attached  to  being  some 
body's  son,  brother,  or  cousin.  At  last,  however,  as 
he  reminded  himself,  he  was  to  discover  what  it  was 
to  be  the  nephew  of  somebody's  husband.  Mrs. 
Mason  was  to  teach  him  the  meaning  of  the  adjective 
domestic.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  learn  it  in  a 
pleasanter  way.  Mason  felt  that  he  was  to  learn 
something  from  his  very  idleness,  and  that  he  would 
leave  the  house  a  wiser  as  well  as  a  better  man.  It 
became  probable,  thanks  to  that  quickening  of  the 
faculties  which  accompanies  the  dawning  of  a  sin 
cere  and  rational  attachment,  that  in  this  last  respect 
he  would  not  be  disappointed.  Very  few  days  suf 
ficed  to  reveal  to  him  the  many  excellent  qualities  of 
his  hostess, — her  warm  capacious  heart,  her  fair 
ness  of  mind,  her  good  temper,  her  good  taste,  her 
vast  fund  of  experience  and  of  reminiscence,  and, 
indeed,  more  than  all,  a  certain  passionate  devoted- 
ness,  to  which  fortune,  in  leaving  her  a  childless 
widow,  had  done  but  scant  justice.  The  two  accord- 


230 A  Landscape  Painter 

ingly  established  a  friendship, — a  friendship  that 
promised  as  well  for  the  happiness  of  each  as  any 
that  ever  undertook  to  meddle  with  happiness.  If 
I  were  telling  my  story  from  Mrs.  Mason's  point  of 
view,  I  take  it  that  I  might  make  a  very  good  thing 
of  the  statement  that  this  lady  had  deliberately  and 
solemnly  conferred  her  affection  upon  my  hero;  but 
I  am  compelled  to  let  it  stand  in  this  simple  shape. 
Excellent,  charming  person  that  she  was,  she  had 
every  right  to  the  rich  satisfaction  which  belonged 
to  a  liberal — yet  not  too  liberal — estimate  of  her 
guest.  She  had  divined  him, — so  much  the  better 
for  her.  That  it  was  very  much  the  better  for  him 
is  obviously  one  of  the  elementary  facts  of  my 
narrative ;  a  fact  of  which  Mason  became  so  rapidly 
and  profoundly  sensible,  that  he  was  soon  able  to 
dismiss  it  from  his  thoughts  to  his  life, — its  proper 
sphere. 

In  the  space  of  ten  days,  then,  most  of  the  nebu 
lous  impressions  evoked  by  change  of  scene  had 
gathered  into  substantial  form.  Others,  however, 
were  still  in  the  nebulous  state, — diffusing  a  gentle 
light  upon  Ferdinand's  path.  Chief  among  these 
was  the  mild  radiance  of  which  Miss  Hofmann  was 
the  centre.  For  three  days  after  his  arrival  Mason 
had  been  confined  to  his  room  by  the  aggravation  of 
his  condition  consequent  upon  his  journey.  It  was 
not  till  the  fourth  day,  therefore,  that  he  was  able 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        237 

to  renew  the  acquaintance  so  auspiciously  com 
menced.  When  at  last,  at  dinner-time,  he  reappeared 
in  the  drawing-room,  Miss  Hofmann  greeted  him 
almost  as  an  old  friend.  Mason  had  already  dis 
covered  that  she  was  young  and  gracious;  he  now 
rapidly  advanced  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  un 
commonly  pretty.  Before  dinner  was  over,  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  that  she  was  neither  more  nor 
less  than  beautiful.  Mrs.  Mason  had  found  time  to 
give  him  a  full  account  of  her  life.  She  had  lost 
her  mother  in  infancy,  and  had  been  adopted  by  her 
aunt  in  the  early  years  of  this  lady's  widowhood. 
Her  father  was  a  man  of  evil  habits, — a  drunkard, 
a  gambler,  and  a  rake,  outlawed  from  decent  society. 
His  only  dealings  with  his  daughter  were  to  write 
her  every  month  or  two  a  begging  letter,  she  being 
in  possession  of  her  mother's  property.  Mrs.  Mason 
had  taken  her  niece  to  Europe,  and  given  her  every 
advantage.  She  had  had  an  expensive  education; 
she  had  travelled;  she  had  gone  into  the  world; 
she  had  been  presented,  like  a  good  republican,  to 
no  less  than  three  European  sovereigns ;  she  had  been 
admired ;  she  had  had  half  a  dozen  offers  of  mar 
riage  to  her  aunt's  knowledge,  and  others,  perhaps, 
of  which  she  was  ignorant,  and  had  refused  them  all. 
She  was  now  twenty-six  years  of  age,  beautiful, 
accomplished,  and  au  mieux  with  her  bankers.  She 
was  an  excellent  girl,  with  a  will  of  her  own.  "I'm 


238  A  Landscape  Painter 

very  fond  of  her,"  Mrs.  Mason  declared,  with  her 
habitual  frankness;  "and  I  suppose  she's  equally 
fond  of  me;  but  we  long  ago  gave  up  all  idea  of 
playing  at  mother  and  daughter.  We  have  never 
had  a  disagreement  since  she  was  fifteen  years  old ; 
but  we  have  never  had  an  agreement  either.  Caro 
line  is  no  sentimentalist.  She's  honest,  good-tem 
pered,  and  perfectly  discerning.  She  foresaw  that 
we  were  still  to  spend  a  number  of  years  together, 
and  she  wisely  declined  at  the  outset  to  affect  a 
range  of  feelings  that  wouldn't  stand  the  wear  and 
tear  of  time.  She  knew  that  she  would  make  a 
poor  daughter,  and  she  contented  herself  with  being 
a  good  niece.  A  capital  niece  she  is.  In  fact  we're 
almost  sisters.  There  are  moments  when  I  feel  as 
if  she  were  ten  years  older  than  I,  and  as  if  it  were 
absurd  in  me  to  attempt  to  interfere  with  her  life. 
I  never  do.  She  has  it  quite  in  her  own  hands.  My 
attitude  is  little  more  than  a  state  of  affectionate 
curiosity  as  to  what  she  will  do  with  it.  Of  course 
she'll  marry,  sooner  or  later;  but  I'm  curious  to  see 
the  man  of  her  choice.  In  Europe,  you  know,  girls 
have  no  acquaintances  but  such  as  they  share  with 
their  parents  and  guardians ;  and  in  that  way  I  know 
most  of  the  gentlemen  who  have  tried  to  make  them 
selves  acceptable  to  my  niece.  There  were  some 
excellent  young  men  in  the  number;  but  there  was 
not  one — or,  rather,  there  was  but  one — for  whom 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        239 

Caroline  cared  a  straw.  That  one  she  loved,  I  be 
lieve;  but  they  had  a  quarrel,  and  she  lost  him. 
She's  very  discreet  and  conciliating.  I'm  sure  no 
girl  ever  before  got  rid  of  half  a  dozen  suitors  with 
so  little  offence.  Ah,  she's  a  dear,  good  girl !"  Mrs. 
Mason  pursued.  "She's  saved  me  a  world  of  trouble 
in  my  day.  And  when  I  think  what  she  might  have 
been,  with  her  beauty,  and  what  not !  She  has  kept 
all  her  suitors  as  friends.  There  are  two  of  them 
who  write  to  her  still.  She  doesn't  answer  their 
letters;  but  once  in  a  while  she  meets  them,  and 
thanks  them  for  writing,  and  that  contents  them. 
The  others  are  married,  and  Caroline  remains  single. 
I  take  for  granted  it  won't  last  forever.  Still, 
although  she's  not  a  sentimentalist,  she'll  not  marry 
a  man  she  doesn't  care  for,  merely  because  she's 
growing  old.  Indeed,  it's  only  the  sentimental  girls, 
to  my  belief,  that  do  that.  They  covet  a  man  for 
his  money  or  his  looks,  and  then  give  the  feeling 
some  fine  name.  But  there's  one  thing,  Mr.  Ferdi 
nand,"  added  Mrs.  Mason,  at  the  close  of  these 
remarks,  "you  will  be  so  good  as  not  to  fall  in  love 
with  my  niece.  I  can  assure  you  that  she'll  not  fall 
in  love  with  you,  and  a  hopeless  passion  will  not 
hasten  your  recovery.  Caroline  is  a  charming  girl. 
You  can  live  with  her  very  well  without  that.  She's 
good  for  common  daylight,  and  you'll  have  no  need 
of  wax-candles  and  ecstasies." 


<>40  A  Landscape  Painter 


"Be  reassured,"  said  Ferdinand,  laughing.  "I'm 
quite  too  attentive  to  myself  at  present  to  think  of 
any  one  else.  Miss  Hofmann  might  be  dying  for  a 
glance  of  my  eye,  and  I  shouldn't  hesitate  to  sacrifice 
her.  It  takes  more  than  half  a  man  to  fall  in  love." 

At  the  end  of  ten  days  summer  had  fairly  set  in ; 
and  Mason  found  it  possible,  and  indeed  profitable, 
to  spend  a  large  portion  of  his  time  in  the  open  air. 
He  was  unable  either  to  ride  or  to  walk;  and  the 
only  form  of  exercise  which  he  found  practicable 
was  an  occasional  drive  in  Mrs.  Mason's  phaeton. 
On  these  occasions  Mrs.  Mason  was  his  habitual 
companion.  The  neighborhood  offered  an  intermin 
able  succession  of  beautiful  drives;  and  poor  Ferdi 
nand  took  a  truly  exquisite  pleasure  in  reclining  idly 
upon  a  pile  of  cushions,  warmly  clad,  empty-handed, 
silent,  with  only  his  eyes  in  motion,  and  rolling  rap 
idly  between  fragrant  hedges  and  springing  crops, 
and  beside  the  outskirts  of  woods,  and  along  the 
heights  which  overlooked  the  river.  Detested  war 
was  over,  and  all  nature  had  ratified  the  peace. 
Mason  used  to  gaze  up  into  the  cloudless  sky  until 
his  eyes  began  to  water,  and  you  would  have  actually 
supposed  he  was  shedding  sentimental  tears.  Be 
sides  these  comfortable  drives  with  his  hostess, 
Mason  had  adopted  another  method  of  inhaling  the 
sunshine.  He  used  frequently  to  spend  several  hours 
at  a  time  on  a  veranda  beside  the  house,  sheltered 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        241 

from  the  observation  of  visitors.  Here,  with  an 
arm-chair  and  a  footstool,  a  cigar  and  half  a  dozen 
volumes  of  novels,  to  say  nothing  of  the  society  of 
either  of  the  ladies,  and  sometimes  of  both,  he  suf 
fered  the  mornings  to  pass  unmeasured  and  un 
counted.  The  chief  incident  of  these  mornings  was 
the  Doctor's  visit,  in  which,  of  course,  there  was  a 
strong  element  of  prose, — and  very  good  prose,  as 
I  may  add,  for  the  Doctor  was  turning  out  an  ex 
cellent  fellow.  But,  for  the  rest,  time  unrolled  itself 
like  a  gentle  strain  of  music.  Mason  knew  so  little, 
from  direct  observation,  of  the  vie  intime  of  elegant, 
intelligent  women,  that  their  habits,  their  manners, 
their  household  motions,  their  principles,  possessed 
in  his  view  all  the  charm  of  a  spectacle, — a  spectacle 
which  he  contemplated  with  the  indolence  of  an 
invalid,  the  sympathy  of  a  man  of  taste,  and  a  little 
of  the  awkwardness  which  women  gladly  allow,  and 
indeed  provoke,  in  a  soldier,  for  the  pleasure  of  for 
giving  it.  It  was  a  very  simple  matter  to  Miss 
Hofmann  that  she  should  be  dressed  in  fresh  crisp 
muslin,  that  her  hands  should  be  white  and  her  atti 
tudes  felicitous ;  she  had  long  since  made  her  peace 
with  these  things.  But  to  Mason,  who  was  familiar 
only  with  books  and  men,  they  were  objects  of  con 
stant,  half-dreamy  contemplation.  He  would  sit  for 
half  an  hour  at  once,  with  a  book  on  his  knees  and 
the  pages  unturned,  scrutinizing  with  ingenious  in- 


242  A  Landscape  Painter 

directness  the  simple  mass  of  colors  and  contours 
which  made  up  the  physical  personality  of  Miss 
Hofmann.  There  was  no  question  as  to  her  beauty, 
or  as  to  its  being  a  warm,  sympathetic  beauty,  and 
not  the  cold  perfection  of  poetry.  She  was  the  least 
bit  taller  than  most  women,  and  neither  stout  nor 
the  reverse.  Her  hair  was  of  a  dark  and  lustrous 
brown,  turning  almost  to  black,  and  lending  itself 
readily  to  those  multitudinous  ringlets  which  were 
then  in  fashion.  Her  forehead  was  broad,  open, 
and  serene ;  and  her  eyes  of  that  deep  and  clear  sea- 
green  that  you  may  observe  of  a  summer's  after 
noon,  when  the  declining  sun  shines  through  the 
rising  of  a  wave.  Her  complexion  was  the  color  ot 
perfect  health.  These,  with  her  full,  mild  lips,  her 
generous  and  flexible  figure,  her  magnificent  hands, 
were  charms  enough  to  occupy  Mason's  attention, 
and  it  was  but  seldom  that  he  allowed  it  to  be  di 
verted.  Mrs.  Mason  was  frequently  called  away 
by  her  household  cares,  but  Miss  Hofmann's  time 
was  apparently  quite  her  own.  Nevertheless,  it 
came  into  Ferdinand's  head  one  day,  that  she  gave 
him  her  company  only  from  a  sense  of  duty,  and 
when,  according  to  his  wont,  he  had  allowed  this 
impression  to  ripen  in  his  mind,  he  ventured  to  as 
sure  her  that,  much  as  he  valued  her  society,  he 
should  be  sorry  to  believe  that  her  gracious  bestowal 
of  it  interfered  with  more  profitable  occupations. 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        243 

"I'm  no  companion,"  he  said.  "I  don't  pretend  to 
be  one.  I  sit  here  deaf  and  dumb,  and  blind  and 
halt,  patiently  waiting  to  be  healed, — waiting  till 
this  vagabond  Nature  of  ours  strolls  my  way,  and 
brushes  me  with  the  hem  of  her  garment." 

"I  find  you  very  good  company,"  Miss  Hofmann 
replied  on  this  occasion.  "What  do  you  take  me 
for?  The  hero  of  a  hundred  fights,  a  young  man 
who  has  been  reduced  to  a  shadow  in  the  service  of 
his  country, — I  should  be  very  fastidious  if  I  asked 
for  anything  better." 

"O,  if  it's  on  theory!"  said  Mason.  And,  in  spite 
of  Miss  Hofmann's  protest,  he  continued  to  assume 
that  it  was  on  theory  that  he  was  not  intolerable. 
But  she  remained  true  to  her  post,  and  with  a  sort 
of  placid  inveteracy  which  seemed  to  the  young  man 
to  betray  either  a  great  deal  of  indifference  or  a 
great  deal  of  self-command.  "She  thinks  I'm 
stupid,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Of  course  she  thinks 
I'm  stupid.  How  should  she  think  otherwise?  She 
and  her  aunt  have  talked  me  over.  Mrs.  Mason 
has  enumerated  my  virtues,  and  Miss  Hofmann  has 
added  them  up :  total,  a  well-meaning  bore.  She 
has  armed  herself  with  patience.  I  must  say  it  be 
comes  her  very  well."  Nothing  was  more  natural, 
nowever,  than  that  Mason  should  exaggerate  the 
effect  of  his  social  incapacity.  His  remarks  were 
desultory,  but  not  infrequent;  often  trivial,  but  al- 


244 A  Landscape  Painter 

ways  good-humored  and  informal.  The  intervals 
of  silence,  indeed,  which  enlivened  his  conversation 
with  Miss  Hofmann,  might  easily  have  been  taken 
for  the  confident  pauses  in  the  talk  of  old  friends. 
Once  in  a  while  Miss  Hofmann  would  sit  down 
at  the  piano  and  play  to  him.  The  veranda  com 
municated  with  the  little  sitting-room  by  means  of 
a  long  window,  one  side  of  which  stood  open. 
Mason  would  move  his  chair  to  this  aperture,  so 
that  he  might  see  the  music  as  well  as  hear  it. 
Seated  at  the  instrument,  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
half -darkened  room,  with  her  figure  in  half -profile, 
and  her  features,  her  movements,  the  color  of  her 
dress,  but  half  defined  in  the  cool  obscurity,  Miss 
Hofmann  would  discourse  infinite  melody.  Ma 
son's  eyes  rested  awhile  on  the  vague  white  folds  of 
her  dress,  on  the  heavy  convolutions  of  her  hair,  and 
the  gentle  movement  of  her  head  in  sympathy  with 
the  music.  Then  a  single  glance  in  the  other  direc 
tion  revealed  another  picture, — the  dazzling  midday 
sky,  the  close-cropped  lawn,  lying  almost  black  in  its 
light,  and  the  patient,  round-backed  gardener,  in 
white  shirt-sleeves,  clipping  the  hedge  or  rolling  the 
gravel.  One  morning,  what  with  the  music,  the 
light,  the  heat,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers, — 
from  the  perfect  equilibrium  of  his  senses,  as  it 
were, — Mason  manfully  went  to  sleep.  On  waking 
he  found  that  he  had  slept  an  hour,  and  that  the  sun 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        245 

had  invaded  the  veranda.  The  music  had  ceased; 
but  on  looking  into  the  parlor  he  saw  Miss  Hof- 
mann  still  at  the  piano.  A  gentleman  was  leaning 
on  the  instrument  with  his  back  toward  the  win 
dow,  intercepting  her  face.  Mason  sat  for  some 
moments,  hardly  sensible,  at  first,  of  his  transition 
to  consciousness,  languidly  guessing  at  her  compan 
ion's  identity.  In  a  short  time  his  observation  was 
quickened  by  the  fact  that  the  picture  before  him 
was  animated  by  no  sound  of  voices.  The  silence 
was  unnatural,  or,  at  the  least,  disagreeable.  Mason 
moved  his  chair,  and  the  gentleman  looked  round. 
The  gentleman  was  Horace  Knight.  The  Doctor 
called  out,  "Good  morning!"  from  his  place,  and 
finished  his  conversation  with  Miss  Hofmann  be 
fore  coming  out  to  his  patient.  When  he  moved 
away  from  the  piano,  Mason  saw  the  reason  of  his 
friends'  silence.  Miss  Hofmann  had  been  trying  to 
decipher  a  difficult  piece  of  music,  the  Doctor  had 
been  trying  to  assist  her,  and  they  had  both  been 
brought  to  a  stop. 

"What  a  clever  fellow  he  is!"  thought  Mason. 
"There  he  stands,  rattling  off  musical  terms  as  if 
he  had  never  thought  of  anything  else.  And  yet, 
when  he  talks  medicine,  it's  impossible  to  talk  more 
to  the  point."  Mason  continued  to  be  very  well  sat 
isfied  with  Knight's  intelligence  of  his  case,  and 
with  his  treatment  of  it.  He  had  been  in  the  coun- 


246 A  Landscape  Painter 

try  now  for  three  weeks,  and  he  would  hesitate,  in 
deed,  to  affirm  that  he  felt  materially  better;  but 
he  felt  more  comfortable.  There  were  moments 
when  he  feared  to  push  the  inquiry  as  to  his  real 
improvement,  because  he  had  a  sickening  appre 
hension  that  he  would  discover  that  in  one  or  two 
important  particulars  he  was  worse.  In  the  course 
of  time  he  imparted  these  fears  to  his  physician. 
"But  I  may  be  mistaken,"  he  added,  "and  for  this 
reason.  During  the  last  fortnight  I  have  become 
much  more  sensible  of  my  condition  than  while  I 
was  in  town.  I  then  accepted  each  additional  symp 
tom  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  more  the  better,  I 
thought.  But  now  I  expect  them  to  give  an  ac 
count  of  themselves.  Now  I  have  a  positive  wish 
to  recover." 

Dr.  Knight  looked  at  his  patient  for  a  moment 
curiously.  "You  are  right,"  he  said;  "a  little  im 
patience  is  a  very  good  thing." 

"O,  I'm  not  impatient.  I'm  patient  to  a  most 
ridiculous  extent.  I  allow  myself  a  good  six 
months,  at  the  very  least." 

"That  is  certainly  not  unreasonable,"  said  Knight. 
"And  will  you  allow  me  a  question?  Do  you  in 
tend  to  spend  those  six  months  in  this  place?" 

"I'm  unable  to  answer  you.  I  suppose  I  shall 
finish  the  summer  here,  unless  the  summer  finishes 
me.  Mrs.  Mason  will  hear  of  nothing  else.  In  Sep- 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        247 

tember  I  hope  to  be  well  enough  to  go  back  to  town, 
even  if  I'm  not  well  enough  to  think  of  work. 
What  do  you  advise?" 

"I  advise  you  to  put  away  all  thoughts  of  work. 
That  is  imperative.  Haven't  you  been  at  work  all 
your  life  long?  Can't  you  spare  a  pitiful  little 
twelve-month  to  health  and  idleness  and  pleasure?" 

"Ah,  pleasure,  pleasure!"  said  Mason,  ironically. 

"Yes,  pleasure,"  said  the  Doctor.  "What  has 
she  done  to  you  that  you  «hould  speak  of  her  in 
that  manner?" 

"O,  she  bothers  me,"  said  Mason. 

"You  are  very  fastidious.  It's  better  to  be  both 
ered  by  pleasure  than  by  pain." 

"I  don't  deny  it.  But  there  is  a  way  of  being  in 
different  to  pain.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  have 
found  it  out,  but  in  the  course  of  my  illness  I  have 
caught  a  glimpse  of  it.  But  it's  beyond  my  strength 
to  be  indifferent  to  pleasure.  In  two  words,  I'm 
afraid  of  dying  of  kindness." 

"O,  nonsense!" 

"Yes,  it's  nonsense;  and  yet  it's  not.  There 
would  be  nothing  miraculous  in  my  not  getting 
well." 

"It  will  be  your  fault  if  you  don't.  It  will  prove 
that  you're  fonder  of  sickness  than  health,  and  that 
you're  not  fit  company  for  sensible  mortals.  Shall 
I  tell  you  ?"  continued  the  Doctor,  after  a  moment's 


248 A  Landscape  Painter 

hesitation.  "When  I  knew  you  in  the  army,  I  al 
ways  found  you  a  step  beyond  my  comprehension. 
You  took  things  too  hard.  You  had  scruples  and 
doubts  about  everything.  And  on  top  of  it  all  you 
were  devoured  with  the  mania  of  appearing  to  take 
things  easily  and  to  be  perfectly  indifferent.  You 
played  your  part  very  well,  but  you  must  do  me  the 
justice  to  confess  that  it  was  a  part." 

"I  hardly  know  whether  that's  a  compliment  or 
an  impertinence.  I  hope,  at  least,  that  you  don't 
mean  to  accuse  me  of  playing  a  part  at  the  present 
moment." 

"On  the  contrary.  I'm  your  physician;  you're 
frank." 

"It's  not  because  you're  my  physician  that  I'm 
frank,"  said  Mason.  "I  shouldn't  think  of  burden 
ing  you  in  that  capacity  with  my  miserable  caprices 
and  fancies;"  and  Ferdinand  paused  a  moment. 
"You're  a  man!"  he  pursued,  laying  his  hand  on 
his  companion's  arm.  "There's  nothing  here  but 
women,  Heaven  reward  them !  I'm  saturated  with 
whispers  and  perfumes  and  smiles,  and  the  rustling 
of  dresses.  It  takes  a  man  to  understand  a  man." 

"It  takes  more  than  a  man  to  understand  you, 
my  dear  Mason,"  said  Knight,  with  a  kindly  smile. 
"But  I  listen." 

Mason  remained  silent,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
with  his  eyes  wandering  slowly  over  the  wide  patch 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        249 

of  sky  disclosed  by  the  window,  and  his  hands  lan 
guidly  folded  on  his  knees.  The  Doctor  examined 
him  with  a  look  half  amused,  half  perplexed.  But 
at  last  his  face  grew  quite  sober,  and  he  contracted 
his  brow.  He  placed  his  hand  on  Mason's  arm  and 
shook  it  gently,  while  Ferdinand  met  his  gaze.  The 
Doctor  frowned,  and,  as  he  did  so,  his  companion's 
mouth  expanded  into  a  placid  smile.  "If  you  don't 

get  well,"  said  Knight, — "if  you  don't  get  well " 

and  he  paused. 

"What  will  be  the  consequences?"  asked  Ferdi 
nand,  still  smiling. 

"I  shall  hate  you,"  said  Knight,  half  smiling,  too. 

Mason  broke  into  a  laugh.  "What  shall  I  care 
for  that?" 

"I  shall  tell  people  that  you  were  a  poor,  spirit 
less  fellow, — that  you  are  no  loss." 

"I  give  you  leave,"  said  Ferdinand. 

The  Doctor  got  up.  "I  don't  like  obstinate  pa 
tients,"  he  said. 

Ferdinand  burst  into  a  long,  loud  laugh,  which 
ended  in  a  fit  of  coughing. 

"I'm  getting  too  amusing,"  said  Knight ;  "I  must 

go." 

"Nay,  laugh  and  grow  fat,"  cried  Ferdinand.  "I 
promise  to  get  well."  But  that  evening,  at  least,  he 
was  no  better,  as  it  turned  out,  for  his  momentary 
exhilaration.  Before  turning  in  for  the  night,  he 


250 A  Landscape  Painter 

went  into  the  drawing-room  to  spend  half  an  hour 
with  the  ladies.  The  room  was  empty,  but  the  lamp 
was  lighted,  and  he  sat  down  by  the  table  and  read 
a  chapter  in  a  novel.  He  felt  excited,  light-headed, 
light-hearted,  half -intoxicated,  as  if  he  had  been 
drinking  strong  coffee.  He  put  down  his  book,  and 
went  over  to  the  mantelpiece,  above  which  hung  a 
mirror,  and  looked  at  the  reflection  of  his  face.  For 
almost  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  examined  his 
features,  and  wondered  if  he  were  good-looking. 
He  was  able  to  conclude  only  that  he  looked  very 
thin  and  pale,  and  utterly  unfit  for  the  business  of 
life.  At  last  he  heard  an  opening  of  doors  overhead, 
and  a  rustling  of  voluminous  skirts  on  the  stairs. 
Mrs.  Mason  came  in,  fresh  from  the  hands  of  her 
maid,  and  dressed  for  a  party. 

"And  is  Miss  Hofmann  going?"  asked  Mason. 
He  felt  that  his  heart  was  beating,  and  that  he  hoped 
Mrs.  Mason  would  say  no.  His  momentary  sense 
of  strength,  the  mellow  lamp-light,  the  open  piano, 
and  the  absence,  of  the  excellent  woman  before  him, 
struck  him  as  so  many  reasons  for  her  remaining  at 
home.  But  the  sound  of  the  young  lady's  descent 
upon  the  stairs  was  an  affirmative  to  his  question. 
She  forthwith  appeared  upon  the  threshold,  dressed 
in  crape  of  a  kind  of  violent  blue,  with  desultory 
clusters  of  white  roses.  For  some  ten  minutes 
Mason  had  the  pleasure  of  being  witness  of  that 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        251 

series  of  pretty  movements  and  preparations  with 
which  women  in  full  dress  beguile  the  interval  be 
fore  their  carriage  is  announced;  their  glances  at 
the  mirror,  their  slow  assumption  of  their  gloves, 
their  mutual  revisions  and  felicitations. 

"Isn't  she  lovely?"  said  Miss  Hofmann  to  the 
young  man,  nodding  at  her  aunt,  who  looked  every 
inch  the  handsome  woman  that  she  was. 

"Lovely,  lovely,  lovely!"  said  Ferdinand,  so  em 
phatically,  that  Miss  Hofmann  transferred  her 
glance  to  him;  while  Mrs.  Mason  good-humoredly 
turned  her  back,  and  Caroline  saw  that  Mason  was 
engaged  in  a  survey  of  her  own  person. 

Miss  Hofmann  smiled  discreetly.  "I  wish  very 
much  you  might  come,"  she  said. 

"I  shall  go  to  bed,"  answered  Ferdinand,  simply. 

"Well,  that's  much  better.  We  shall  go  to  bed  at 
two  o'clock.  Meanwhile  I  shall  caper  about  the 
rooms  to  the  sound  of  a  piano  and  fiddle,  and  Aunt 
Maria  will  sit  against  the  wall  with  her  toes  tucked 
under  a  chair.  Such  is  life!" 

"You'll  dance  then,"  said  Mason. 

"I  shall  dance.    Dr.  Knight  has  invited  me." 

"Does  he  dance  well,  Caroline?"  asked  Mrs. 
Mason. 

"That  remains  to  be  seen.  I  have  a  strong  im 
pression  that  he  does  not." 

"Why?"  asked  Ferdinand. 


252 A  Landscape  Painter 

"He  does  so  many  other  things  well." 

"That's  no  reason,"  said  Mrs.  Mason.  "Do  you 
dance,  Ferdinand?" 

Ferdinand  shook  his  head. 

"I  like  a  man  to  dance,"  said  Caroline,  "and  yet 
I  like  him  not  to  dance." 

"That's  a  very  womanish  speech,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Mason. 

"I  suppose  it  is.  It's  inspired  by  my  white  gloves 
and  my  low  dress,  and  my  roses.  When  once  a 
woman  gets  on  such  things,  Colonel  Mason,  expect 
nothing  but  nonsense. — Aunt  Maria,"  the  young 
lady  continued,  "will  you  button  my  glove?" 

"Let  me  do  it,"  said  Ferdinand.  "Your  aunt  has 
her  gloves  on." 

"Thank  you."  And  Miss  Hofmann  extended  a 
long,  white  arm,  and  drew  back  with  her  other  hand 
the  bracelet  from  her  wrist.  Her  glove  had  three 
buttons,  and  Mason  performed  the  operation  with 
great  deliberation  and  neatness. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  gravely,  "I  hear  the  car 
riage.  You  want  me  to  put  on  your  shawl." 

"If  you  please," — Miss  Hofmann  passed  her  full 
white  drapery  into  his  hands,  and  then  turned  about 
her  fair  shoulders.  Mason  solemnly  covered  them, 
while  the  waiting-maid,  who  had  come  in,  per 
formed  the  same  service  for  the  elder  lady. 

"Good  by,"  said  the  latter,  giving  him  her  hand. 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        253 

"You're  not  to  come  out  into  the  air."  And  Mrs. 
Mason,  attended  by  her  maid,  transferred  herself 
to  the  carriage.  Miss  Hofmann  gathered  up  her 
loveliness,  and  prepared  to  follow.  Ferdinand  stood 
leaning  against  the  parlor  door,  watching  her;  and 
as  she  rustled  past  him  she  nodded  farewell  with  a 
silent  smile.  A  characteristic  smile,  Mason  thought 
it, — a  smile  in  which  there  was  no  expectation  of 
triumph  and  no  affectation  of  reluctance,  but  just 
the  faintest  suggestion  of  perfectly  good-humored 
resignation.  Mason  went  to  the  window  and  saw 
the  carriage  roll  away  with  its  lighted  lamps,  and 
then  stood  looking  out  into  the  darkness.  The  sky 
was  cloudy.  As  he  turned  away  the  maid-servant 
came  in,  and  took  from  the  table  a  pair  of  rejected 
gloves.  "I  hope  you're  feeling  better,  sir,"  she  said, 
politely. 

"Thank  you,  I  think  I  am." 

"It's  a  pity  you  couldn't  have  gone  with  the  la 
dies." 

"I'm  not  well  enough  yet  to  think  of  such  things," 
said  Mason,  trying  to  smile.  But  as  he  walked 
across  the  floor  he  felt  himself  attacked  by  a  sudden 
sensation,  which  cannot  be  better  described  than  as 
a  general  collapse.  He  felt  dizzy,  faint,  and  sick. 
His  head  swam  and  his  knees  trembled.  "I'm  ill," 
he  said,  sitting  down  on  the  sofa;  "you  must  call 
William." 


254 A  Landscape  Painter 

William  speedily  arrived,  and  conducted  the 
young  man  to  his  room.  "What  on  earth  had  you 
been  doing,  sir?"  asked  this  most  irreproachable  of 
serving-men,  as  he  helped  him  to  undress. 

Ferdinand  was  silent  a  moment.  "I  had  been 
putting  on  Miss  Hofmann's  shawl,"  he  said. 

"Is  that  all,  sir?" 

"And  I  had  been  buttoning  her  glove." 

"Well,  sir,  you  must  be  very  prudent." 

"So  it  appears,"  said  Ferdinand. 

He  slept  soundly,  however,  and  the  next  morning 
was  the  better  for  it.  "I'm  certainly  better,"  he  said 
to  himself,  as  he  slowly  proceeded  to  his  toilet.  "A 
month  ago  such  an  attack  as  that  of  last  evening 
would  have  effectually  banished  sleep.  Courage, 
then.  The  Devil  isn't  dead,  but  he's  dying." 

In  the  afternoon  he  received  a  visit  from  Horace 
Knight.  "So  you  danced  last  evening  at  Mrs. 
Bradshaw's,"  he  said  to  his  friend. 

"Yes,  I  danced.  It's  a  great  piece  of  frivolity  for 
a  man  in  my  position ;  but  I  thought  there  would  be 
no  harm  in  doing  it  just  once,  to  show  them  I  know 
how.  My  abstinence  in  future  will  tell  the  better. 
Your  ladies  were  there.  I  danced  with  Miss  Hof- 
mann.  She  was  dressed  in  blue,  and  she  was  the 
most  beautiful  woman  in  the  room.  Every  one  was 
talking  about  it." 

"I  saw  her,"  said  Mason,  "before  she  went  off." 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        255 

"You  should  have  seen  her  there,"  said  Knight. 
"The  music,  the  excitement,  the  spectators,  and  all 
that,  bring  out  a  woman's  beauty." 

"So  I  suppose,"  said  Ferdinand. 

"What  strikes  me,"  pursued  the  Doctor,  "is  her 
— what  shall  I  call  it  ? — her  vitality,  her  quiet  buoy 
ancy.  Of  course,  you  didn't  see  her  when  she  came 
home?  If  you  had,  you  would  have  noticed,  unless 
I'm  very  much  mistaken,  that  she  was  as  fresh  and 
elastic  at  two  o'clock  as  she  had  been  at  ten.  While 
all  the  other  women  looked  tired  and  jaded  and 
used  up,  she  alone  showed  no  signs  of  exhaustion. 
She  was  neither  pale  nor  flushed,  but  still  light- 
footed,  rosy,  and  erect.  She's  solid.  You  see  I 
can't  help  looking  at  such  things  as  a  physician. 
She  has  a  magnificent  organization.  Among  all 
those  other  poor  girls  she  seemed  to  have  something 
of  the  inviolable  strength  of  a  goddess ;"  and  Knight 
smiled  frankly  as  he  entered  the  region  of  eloquence. 
"She  wears  her  artificial  roses  and  dew-drops  as  if 
she  had  gathered  them  on  the  mountain-tops,  instead 
of  buying  them  in  Broadway.  She  moves  with  long 
steps,  her  dress  rustles,  and  to  a  man  of  fancy  it's 
the  sound  of  Diana  on  the  forest-leaves." 

Ferdinand  nodded  assent.     "So  you're  a  man  of 
fancy,"  he  said. 

"Of  course  I  am,"  said  the  Doctor. 

Ferdinand    was    not    inclined    to    question    his 


256  A  Landscape  Painter 

friend's  estimate  of  Miss  Hofmann,  nor  to  weigh 
his  words.  They  only  served  to  confirm  an  impres 
sion  which  was  already  strong  in  his  own  mind. 
Day  by  day  he  had  felt  the  growth  of  this  impres 
sion.  "He  must  be  a  strong  man  who  would  ap 
proach  her,"  he  said  to  himself.  "He  must  be  as 
vigorous  and  elastic  as  she  herself,  or  in  the  prog 
ress  of  courtship  she  will  leave  him  far  behind.  He 
must  be  able  to  forget  his  lungs  and  his  liver  and 
his  digestion.  To  have  broken  down  in  his  coun 
try's  defence,  even,  will  avail  him  nothing.  What 
is  that  to  her?  She  needs  a  man  who  has  defended 
his  country  without  breaking  down, — a  being  com 
plete,  intact,  well  seasoned,  invulnerable.  Then, — 
then,"  thought  Ferdinand,  "perhaps  she  will  con 
sider  him.  Perhaps  it  will  be  to  refuse  him.  Per 
haps,  like  Diana,  to  whom  Knight  compares  her,  she 
is  meant  to  live  alone.  It's  certain,  at  least,  that  she 
is  able  to  wait.  She  will  be  young  at  forty-five. 
Women  who  are  young  at  forty-five  are  perhaps  not 
the  most  interesting  women.  They  are  likely  to 
have  felt  for  nobody  and  for  nothing.  But  it's 
often  less  their  own  fault  than  that  of  the  men  and 
women  about  them.  This  one  at  least  can  feel ;  the 
thing  is  to  move  her.  Her  soul  is  an  instrument  of 
a  hundred  strings,  only  it  takes  a  strong  hand  to 
draw  sound.  Once  really  touched,  they  will  rever 
berate  for  ever  and  ever." 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        257 

In  fine,  Mason  was  in  love.  It  will  be  seen  that 
his  passion  was  not  arrogant  nor  uncompromising; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  patient,  discreet,  and  modest, 
— almost  timid.  For  ten  long  days,  the  most  mem 
orable  days  of  his  life, — days  which,  if  he  had  kept 
a  journal,  would  have  been  left  blank, — he  held  his 
tongue.  He  would  have  suffered  anything  rather 
than  reveal  his  emotions,  or  allow  them  to  come  ac 
cidentally  to  Miss  Hofmann's  knowledge.  He 
would  cherish  them  in  silence  until  he  should  feel 
in  all  his  sinews  that  he  was  himself  again,  and 
then  he  would  open  his  heart.  Meanwhile  he  would 
be  patient ;  he  would  be  the  most  irreproachable,  the 
most  austere,  the  most  insignificant  of  convales 
cents.  He  was  as  yet  unfit  to  touch  her,  to  look  at 
her,  to  speak  to  her.  A  man  was  not  to  go  a  wooing 
in  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers. 

There  came  a  day,  however,  when,  in  spite  of  his 
high  resolves,  Ferdinand  came  near  losing  his  bal 
ance.  Mrs.  Mason  had  arranged  with  him  to  drive 
in  the  phaeton  after  dinner.  But  it  befell  that,  an 
hour  before  the  appointed  time,  she  was  sent  for  by 
by  a  neighbor  who  had  been  taken  ill. 

"But  it's  out  of  the  question  that  you  should  lose 
your  drive,"  said  Miss  Hofmann,  who  brought  him 
her  aunt's  apologies.  "If  you  are  still  disposed  to 
go,  I  shall  be  happy  to  take  the  reins.  I  shall  not 
be  as  good  company  as  Aunt  Maria,  but  perhaps  I 


258 A  Landscape  Painter 

shall  be  as  good  company  as  Thomas."  It  was  set 
tled,  accordingly,  that  Miss  Hofmann  should  act 
as  her  aunt's  substitute,  and  at  five  o'clock  the  phae 
ton  left  the  door.  The  first  half  of  their  drive  was 
passed  in  silence;  and  almost  the  first  words  they 
exchanged  were  as  they  finally  drew  near  to  a  space 
of  enclosed  ground,  beyond  which,  through  the  trees 
at  its  farther  extremity,  they  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
turn  in  the  river.  Miss  Hofmann  involuntarily 
pulled  up.  The  sun  had  sunk  low,  and  the  cloudless 
western  sky  glowed  with  rosy  yellow.  The  trees 
which  concealed  the  view  flung  over  the  grass  a 
great  screen  of  shadow,  which  reached  out  into  the 
road.  Between  their  scattered  stems  gleamed  the 
broad,  white  current  of  the  Hudson.  Our  friends 
both  knew  the  spot.  Mason  had  seen  it  from  a  boat, 
when  one  morning  a  gentleman  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  thinking  to  do  him  a  kindness,  had  invited 
him  to  take  a  short  sail;  and  with  Miss  Hofmann 
it  had  long  been  a  frequent  resort. 

"How  beautiful!"  she  said,  as  the  phaeton 
stopped. 

"Yes,  if  it  wasn't  for  those  trees,"  said 
Ferdinand.  "They  conceal  the  best  part  of  the 
view." 

"I  should  rather  say  they  indicate  it,"  answered 
his  companion.  "From  here  they  conceal  it;  but 
they  suggest  to  you  to  make  your  way  in,  and  lose 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        259 

yourself  behind  them,  and  enjoy  the  prospect  in  pri 
vacy." 

"But  you  can't  take  a  vehicle  in." 

"No:  there  is  only  a  footpath,  although  I  have 
ridden  in.  One  of  these  days,  when  you're  stronger, 
you  must  drive  to  this  point,  and  get  out,  and  walk 
over  to  the  bank." 

Mason  was  silent  a  moment, — a  moment  during 
which  he  felt  in  his  limbs  the  tremor  of  a  bold  reso 
lution.  "I  noticed  the  place  the  day  I  went  out  on 
the  water  with  Mr.  McCarthy.  I  immediately 
marked  it  as  my  own.  The  bank  is  quite  high,  and 
the  trees  make  a  little  amphitheatre  on  its  summit. 
I  think  there's  a  bench," 

"Yes,  there  are  two  benches,"  said  Caroline. 

"Suppose,  then,  we  try  it  now,"  said  Mason,  with 
an  effort. 

"But  you  can  never  walk  over  that  meadow.  You 
see  it's  broken  ground.  And,  at  all  events,  I  can't 
consent  to  your  going  alone." 

"That,  madam,"  said  Ferdinand,  rising  to  his  feet 
in  the  phaeton,  "is  a  piece  of  folly  I  should  never 
think  of  proposing.  Yonder  is  a  house,  and  in  it 
there  are  people.  Can't  we  drive  thither,  and  place 
the  horse  in  their  custody?" 

"Nothing  is  more  easy,  if  you  insist  upon  it.  The 
house  is  occupied  by  a  German  family  with  a  couple 
of  children,  who  are  old  friends  of  mine.  When  I 


260  A  Landscape  Painter 

come  here  on  horseback  they  always  clamor  for 
'coppers.'  From  their  little  garden  the  walk  is 
shorter." 

So  Miss  Hofmann  turned  the  horse  toward  the 
cottage,  which  stood  at  the  head  of  a  lane,  a  few 
yards  from  the  road.  A  little  boy  and  girl,  with 
bare  heads  and  bare  feet, — the  former  members 
very  white  and  the  latter  very  black, — came  out  to 
meet  her.  Caroline  greeted  them  good-humoredly 
in  German.  The  girl,  who  was  the  elder,  consented 
to  watch  the  horse,  while  the  boy  volunteered  to 
show  the  visitors  the  shortest  way  to  the  river. 
Mason  reached  the  point  in  question  without  great 
fatigue,  and  found  a  prospect  which  would  have 
repaid  even  greater  trouble.  To  the  right  and  to 
the  left,  a  hundred  feet  below  them,  stretched  the 
broad  channel  of  the  seaward-shifting  waters.  In 
the  distance  rose  the  gentle  masses  of  the  Catskills 
with  all  the  intervening  region  vague  and  neutral  in 
the  gathering  twilight.  A  faint  odor  of  coolness 
came  up  to  their  faces  from  the  stream  below. 

"You  can  sit  down,"  said  the  little  boy,  doing  the 
honors. 

"Yes,  Colonel,  sit  down,"  said  Caroline.  "You've 
already  been  on  your  feet  too  much." 

Ferdinand  obediently  seated  himself,  unable  to 
deny  that  he  was  glad  to  do  so.  Miss  Hofmann  re 
leased  from  her  grasp  the  skirts  which  she  had  gath- 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        261 

ered  up  in  her  passage  from  the  phaeton,  and  strolled 
to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  where  she  stood  for  some 
moments  talking  with  her  little  guide.  Mason  could 
only  hear  that  she  was  speaking  German.  After 
the  lapse  of  a  few  moments  Miss  Hofmann  turned 
back,  still  talking — or  rather  listening — to  the 
child. 

"He's  very  pretty,"  she  said  in  French,  as  she 
stopped  before  Ferdinand. 

Mason  broke  into  a  laugh.  "To  think,5'  said  he, 
"that  that  little  youngster  should  forbid  us  the  use 
of  two  languages!  Do  you  speak  French,  my 
child?" 

"No,"  said  the  boy,  sturdily,  "I  speak  German." 

"Ah,  there  I  can't  follow  you !" 

The  child  stared  a  moment,  and  then  replied,  with 
pardonable  irrelevancy,  "I'll  show  you  the  way  down 
to  the  water." 

"There  I  can't  follow  you  either.  I  hope  you'll 
not  go,  Miss  Hofmann,"  added  the  young  man,  ob 
serving  a  movement  on  Caroline's  part. 

"Is  it  hard?"  she  asked  of  the  child. 

"No,  it's  easy." 

"Will  I  tear  my  dress?" 

The  child  shook  his  head ;  and  Caroline  descended 
the  bank  under  his  guidance. 

As  some  moments  elapsed  before  she  reappeared, 
Ferdinand  ventured  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  look- 


262 A  Landscape  Painter 

ed  down.  She  was  sitting  on  a  rock  on  the  narrow 
margin  of  sand,  with  her  hat  in  her  lap,  twisting  the 
feather  in  her  fingers.  In  a  few  moments  it  seemed 
to  Ferdinand  that  he  caught  the  tones  of  her  voice, 
wafted  upward  as  if  she  were  gently  singing.  He 
listened  intently,  and  at  last  succeeded  in  distin 
guishing  several  words ;  they  were  German.  "Con 
found  her  German !"  thought  the  young  man.  Sud 
denly  Miss  Hofmann  rose  from  her  seat,  and,  after 
a  short  interval,  reappeared  on  the  platform. 
"What  did  you  find  down  there?"  asked  Ferdinand, 
almost  savagely. 

"Nothing, — a  little  strip  of  a  beach  and  a  pile  of 
stones." 

"You  have  torn  your  dress,"  said  Mason. 

Miss  Hofmann  surveyed  her  drapery.  "Where, 
if  you  please?" 

"There,  in  front."  And  Mason  extended  his 
walking-stick,  and  inserted  it  into  the  injured  fold 
of  muslin.  There  was  a  certain  graceless  brusquerie 
in  the  movement  which  attracted  Miss  Hofmann's 
attention.  She  looked  at  her  companion,  and,  see 
ing  that  his  face  was  discomposed,  fancied  that  he 
was  annoyed  at  having  been  compelled  to  wait. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said ;  "it's  easily  mended.  And 
now  suppose  we  go  back." 

"No,  not  yet,"  said  Ferdinand.  "We  have  plenty 
of  time." 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        263 

"Plenty  of  time  to  catch  cold,"  said  Miss  Hof- 
mann,  kindly. 

Mason  had  planted  his  stick  where  he  had  let  it 
fall  on  withdrawing  it  from  contact  with  his  com 
panion's  skirts,  and  stood  leaning  against  it,  with  his 
eyes  on  the  young  girl's  face.  "What  if  I  do  catch 
cold?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"Come,  don't  talk  nonsense,"  said  Miss  Hof- 
mann. 

"I  never  was  more  serious  in  my  life."  And, 
pausing  a  moment,  he  drew  a  couple  of  steps  nearer. 
She  had  gathered  her  shawl  closely  about  her,  and 
stood  with  her  arms  lost  in  it,  holding  her  elbows. 
"I  don't  mean  that  quite  literally,"  Mason  contin 
ued.  "I  wish  to  get  well,  on  the  whole.  But  there 
are  moments  when  this  perpetual  self-coddling 
seems  beneath  the  dignity  of  man,  and  I'm  tempted 
to  purchase  one  short  hour  of  enjoyment,  of  happi 
ness,  at  the  cost — well,  at  the  cost  of  my  life  if 
necessary !" 

This  was  a  franker  speech  than  Ferdinand  had 
yet  made ;  the  reader  may  estimate  his  habitual  re 
serve.  Miss  Hofmann  must  have  been  somewhat 
surprised,  and  even  slightly  puzzled.  But  it  was 
plain  that  he  expected  a  rejoinder. 

"I  don't  know  what  temptation  you  may  have 
had,"  she  answered,  smiling;  "but  I  confess  that  I 
can  think  of  none  in  your  present  circumstances 


264 A  Landscape  Painter 

likely  to  involve  the  great  sacrifice  you  speak  of. 
What  you  say,  Colonel  Mason,  is  half " 

"Half  what?" 

"Half  ungrateful.  Aunt  Maria  flatters  herself 
that  she  has  made  existence  as  easy  and  as  peaceful 
for  you — as  stupid,  if  you  like — as  it  can  possibly 
be  for  a — a  clever  man.  And  now,  after  all,  to  ac 
cuse  her  of  introducing  temptations." 

"Your  aunt  Maria  is  the  best  of  women,  Miss 
Hofmann,"  said  Mason.  "But  I'm  not  a  clever 
man.  I'm  deplorably  weak-minded.  Very  little 
things  excite  me.  Very  small  pleasures  are  gigantic 
temptations.  I  would  give  a  great  deal,  for  in 
stance,  to  stay  here  with  you  for  half  an  hour." 

It  is  a  delicate  question  whether  Miss  Hofmann 
now  ceased  to  be  perplexed;  whether  she  discerned 
in  the  young  man's  accents — it  was  his  tone,  his  at 
titude,  his  eyes  that  were  fully  significant,  rather 
than  his  words — an  intimation  of  that  sublime  and 
simple  truth  in  the  presence  of  which  a  wise  woman 
puts  off  coquetry  and  prudery,  and  stands  invested 
with  perfect  charity.  But  charity  is  nothing  if  not 
discreet;  and  Miss  Hofmann  may  very  well  have 
effected  the  little  transaction  I  speak  of,  and  yet 
have  remained,  as  she  did  remain,  gracefully 
wrapped  in  her  shawl,  with  the  same  serious  smile 
on  her  face.  Ferdinand's  heart  was  thumping  under 
his  waistcoat ;  the  words  in  which  he  might  tell  her 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        265 

that  he  loved  her  were  fluttering  there  like  fright 
ened  birds  in  a  storm-shaken  cage.  Whether  his 
lips  would  form  them  or  not  depended  on  the  next 
words  she  uttered.  On  the  faintest  sign  of  defiance 
or  of  impatience  he  would  really  give  her  something 
to  coquet  withal.  I  repeat  that  I  do  not  undertake 
to  follow  Miss  Hofmann's  feelings;  I  only  know 
that  her  words  were  those  of  a  woman  of  great  in 
stincts.  "My  dear  Colonel  Mason,"  she  said,  "I 
wish  we  might  remain  here  the  whole  evening.  The 
moments  are  quite  too  pleasant  to  be  wantonly  sac 
rificed.  I  simply  put  you  on  your  conscience.  If 
you  believe  that  you  can  safely  do  so, — that  you'll 
not  have  some  dreadful  chill  in  consequence, — let 
us  by  all  means  stay  awhile.  If  you  do  not  so  be 
lieve,  let  us  go  back  to  the  carriage.  There  is  no 
good  reason,  that  I  see,  for  our  behaving  like  chil 
dren." 

If  Miss  Hofmann  apprehended  a  scene, — I  do  not 
assert  that  she  did, — she  was  saved.  Mason  ex 
tracted  from  her  words  a  delicate  assurance  that 
he  could  afford  to  wait.  "You're  an  angel,  Miss 
Hofmann,"  he  said,  as  a  sign  that  this  kindly  assur 
ance  had  been  taken.  "I  think  we  had  better  go 
back." 

Miss  Hofmann  accordingly  led  the  way  along 
the  path,  and  Ferdinand  slowly  followed.  A  man 
who  has  submitted  to  a  woman's  wisdom  generally 


266  A  Landscape  Painter 

feels  bound  to  persuade  himself  that  he  has  sur 
rendered  at  discretion.  I  suppose  it  was  in  this 
spirit  that  Mason  said  to  himself  as  he  walked  along, 
"Well,  I  got  what  I  wanted." 

The  next  morning  he  was  again  an  invalid.  He 
woke  up  with  symptoms  which  as  yet  he  had  scarcely 
felt  at  all;  and  he  was  obliged  to  acknowledge  the 
bitter  truth  that,  small  as  it  was,  his  adventure  had 
exceeded  his  strength.  The  walk,  the  evening  air, 
the  dampness  of  the  spot,  had  combined  to  produce 
a  violent  attack  of  fever.  As  soon  as  it  became 
plain  that,  in  vulgar  terms,  he  was  "in  for  it,"  he 
took  his  heart  in  his  hands  and  succumbed.  As  his 
condition  grew  worse,  he  was  fortunately  relieved 
from  the  custody  of  this  valuable  organ,  with  all  it 
contained  of  hopes  delayed  and  broken  projects,  by 
several  intervals  of  prolonged  unconsciousness. 

For  three  weeks  he  was  a  very  sick  man.  For  a 
couple  of  days  his  recovery  was  doubted  of.  Mrs. 
Mason  attended  him  with  inexhaustible  patience  and 
with  the  solicitude  of  real  affection.  She  was  re 
solved  that  greedy  Death  should  not  possess  him 
self,  through  any  fault  of  hers,  of  a  career  so  full 
of  bright  possibilities  and  of  that  active  gratitude 
which  a  good-natured  elderly  woman  would  relish, 
as  she  felt  that  of  her  protege  to  be.  Her  vigils 
were  finally  rewarded.  One  fine  morning  poor, 
long-silent  Ferdinand  found  words  to  tell  her  that 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        267 

he  was  better.  His  recovery  was  very  slow,  how 
ever,  and  it  ceased  several  degrees  below  the  level 
from  which  he  had  originally  fallen.  He  was  thus 
twice  a  convalescent, — a  sufficiently  miserable  fel 
low.  He  professed  to  be  very  much  surprised  to 
find  himself  still  among  the  living.  He  remained 
silent  and  grave,  with  a  newly  contracted  fold  in 
his  forehead,  like  a  man  honestly  perplexed  at  the 
vagaries  of  destiny.  "It  must  be,"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Mason, — "it  must  be  that  I  am  reserved  for  great 
things." 

In  order  to  insure  absolute  quiet  in  the  house, 
Ferdinand  learned  Miss  Hofmann  had  removed  her 
self  to  the  house  of  a  friend,  at  a  distance  of  some 
five  miles.  On  the  first  day  that  the  young  man  was 
well  enough  to  sit  in  his  arm-chair  Mrs.  Mason 
spoke  of  her  niece's  return,  which  was  fixed  for  the 
morrow.  "She  will  want  very  much  to  see  you," 
she  said.  "When  she  comes,  may  I  bring  her  into 
your  room?" 

"Good  heavens,  no!"  said  Ferdinand,  to  whom 
the  idea  was  very  disagreeable.  He  met  her  ac 
cordingly  at  dinner,  three  days  later.  He  left  his 
room  at  the  dinner  hour,  in  company  with  Dr. 
Knight,  who  was  taking  his  departure.  In  the  hall 
they  encountered  Mrs.  Mason,  who  invited  the  Doc 
tor  to  remain,  in  honor  of  his  patient's  reappearance 
in  society.  The  Doctor  hesitated  a  moment,  and, 


268 A  Landscape  Painter 

as  he  did  so,  Ferdinand  heard  Miss  Hofmann's  step 
descending  the  stair.  He  turned  towards  her  just 
in  time  to  catch  on  her  face  the  vanishing  of  a 
glance  of  intelligence.  As  Mrs.  Mason's  back  was 
against  the  staircase,  her  glance  was  evidently  meant 
for  Knight.  He  excused  himself  on  the  plea  of  an 
engagement,  to  Mason's  regret,  while  :the  latter 
greeted  the  younger  lady.  Mrs.  Mason  proposed 
another  day, — the  following  Sunday;  the  Doctor 
assented,  and  it  was  not  till  some  time  later  that 
Ferdinand  found  himself  wondering  why  Miss  Hof- 
mann  should  have  forbidden  him  to  remain.  He 
rapidly  perceived  that  during  the  period  of  their 
separation  this  young  lady  had  lost  none  of  her 
charms ;  on  the  contrary,  they  were  more  irresistible 
than  ever.  It  seemed  to  Mason,  moreover,  that  they 
were  bound  together  by  a  certain  pensive  gentle 
ness,  a  tender,  submissive  look,  which  he  had  hith 
erto  failed  to  observe.  Mrs.  Mason's  own  remarks 
assured  him  that  he  was  not  the  victim  of  an  il 
lusion. 

"I  wonder  what  is  the  matter  with  Caroline," 
she  said.  "If  it  were  not  that  she  tells  me  that  she 
never  was  better,  I  should  believe  she  is  feeling  un 
well.  I've  never  seen  her  so  simple  and  gentle.  She 
looks  like  a  person  who  has  a  great  fright, — a  fright 
not  altogether  unpleasant." 

"She  has  been  staying  in  a  house  full  of  people," 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        269 

said  Mason.  "She  has  been  excited,  and  amused, 
and  preoccupied;  she  returns  to  you  and  me  (excuse 
the  juxtaposition, — it  exists) — a  kind  of  reaction 
asserts  itself."  Ferdinand's  explanation  was  in 
genious  rather  than  plausible. 

Mrs.  Mason  had  a  better  one.  "I  have  an  im 
pression,"  she  said,  "George  Stapleton,  the  second 
of  the  sons,  is  an  old  admirer  of  Caroline's.  It's 
hard  to  believe  that  he  could  have  been  in  the  house 
with  her  for  a  fortnight  without  renewing  his  suit, 
in  some  form  or  other." 

Ferdinand  was  not  made  uneasy,  for  he  had  seen 
and  talked  with  Mr.  George  Stapleton, — a  young 
man,  very  good-looking,  very  good-natured,  very 
clever,  very  rich,  and  very  unworthy,  as  he  con 
ceived,  of  Miss  Hofmann.  "You  don't  mean  to 
say  that  your  niece  has  listened  to  him,"  he  an 
swered,  calmly  enough. 

"Listened,  yes.  He  has  made  himself  agreeable, 
and  he  has  succeeded  in  making  an  impression, — a 
temporary  impression,"  added  Mrs.  Mason  with  a 
business-like  air. 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  said  Ferdinand. 

"Why  not  ?    He's  a  very  nice  fellow." 

"Yes, — yes,"  said  Mason,  "very  nice,  indeed. 
He's  very  rich,  too."  And  here  the  talk  was  inter 
rupted  by  Caroline's  entrance. 

On  Sunday  the  two  ladies  went  to  church.     It 


270 A  Landscape  Painter 

was  not  till  after  they  had  gone  that  Ferdinand  left 
his  room.  He  came  into  the  little  parlor,  took  up 
a  book,  and  felt  something  of  the  stir  of  his  old  in 
tellectual  life.  Would  he  ever  again  know  what  it 
was  to  work?  In  the  course  of  an  hour  the  ladies 
came  in,  radiant  with  devotional  millinery.  Mrs. 
Mason  soon  went  out  again,  leaving  the  others  to 
gether.  Miss  Hofmann  asked  Ferdinand  what  He 
had  been  reading;  and  he  was  thus  led  to  declare 
that  he  really  believed  he  should,  after  all,  get  the 
use  of  his  head  again.  She  listened  with  all  the  re 
spect  which  an  intelligent  woman  who  leads  an  idle 
life  necessarily  feels  for  a  clever  man  when  he  con 
sents  to  make  her  in  some  degree  the  confidant  of 
his  intellectual  purposes.  Quickened  by  her  delicious 
sympathy,  her  grave  attention,  and  her  intelligent 
questions,  he  was  led  to  unbosom  himself  of  several 
of  his  dearest  convictions  and  projects.  It  was  easy 
that  from  this  point  the  conversation  should  ad 
vance  to  matters  of  belief  and  hope  in  general.  Be 
fore  he  knew  it,  it  had  done  so;  and  he  had  thus 
the  great  satisfaction  of  discussing  with  the  woman 
on  whom  of  all  others  his  selfish  and  personal  hap 
piness  was  most  dependent  those  great  themes  in 
whose  expansive  magnitude  persons  and  pleasures 
and  passions  are  absorbed  and  extinguished,  and  in 
whose  austere  effulgence  the  brightest  divinities  of 
earth  remit  their  shining.  Serious  passions  are  a 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        271 


good  preparation  for  the  highest  kinds  of  specu 
lation.  Although  Ferdinand  was  urging  no  suit 
whatever  upon  his  companion,  and  consciously,  at 
least,  making  use  in  no  degree  of  the  emotion  which 
accompanied  her  presence,  it  is  certain  that,  as  they 
formed  themselves,  his  conceptions  were  the  clearer 
for  being  the  conceptions  of  a  man  in  love.  And, 
as  for  Miss  Hofmann,  her  attention  could  not,  to 
all  appearances,  have  been  more  lively,  nor  her  per 
ception  more  delicate,  if  the  atmosphere  of  her  own 
intellect  had  been  purified  by  the  sacred  fires  of  a 
responsive  passion. 

Knight  duly  made  his  appearance  at  dinner,  and 
proved  himself  once  more  the  entertaining  gentle 
man  whom  our  friends  had  long  since  learned  to 
appreciate.  But  Mason,  fresh  from  his  contest  with 
morals  and  metaphysics,  was  forcibly  struck  with 
the  fact  that  he  was  one  of  those  men  from  whom 
these  sturdy  beggars  receive  more  kicks  than  half 
pence.  He  was  nevertheless  obliged  to  admit,  that, 
if  he  was  not  a  man  of  principles,  he  was  thoroughly 
a  man  of  honor.  After  dinner  the  company  ad 
journed  to  the  piazza,  where,  in  the  course  of  half 
an  hour,  the  Doctor  proposed  to  Miss  Hofmann  to 
take  a  turn  in  the  grounds.  All  around  the  lawn 
there  wound  a  narrow  footpath,  concealed  from  view 
in  spots  by  clusters  of  shrubbery.  Ferdinand  and 
his  hostess  sat  watching  their  retreating  figures  as 


272 A   Landscape  Painter 

they  slowly  measured  the  sinuous  strip  of  gravel; 
Miss  Hofmann's  light  dress  and  the  Doctor's  white 
waistcoat  gleaming  at  intervals  through  the  dark 
verdure.  At  the  end  of  twenty  minutes  they  re 
turned  to  the  house.  The  doctor  came  back  only 
to  make  his  bow  and  to  take  his  departure;  and, 
when  he  had  gone,  Miss  Hofmann  retired  to  her 
own  room.  The  next  morning  she  mounted  her 
horse,  and  rode  over  to  see  the  friend  with  whom 
she  had  stayed  during  Mason's  fever.  Ferdinand 
saw  her  pass  his  window,  erect  in  the  saddle,  with 
her  horse  scattering  the  gravel  with  his  nervous 
steps.  Shortly  afterwards  Mrs.  Mason  came  into 
the  room,  sat  down  by  the  young  man,  made  her 
habitual  inquiries  as  to  his  condition,  and  then 
paused  in  such  a  way  as  that  he  instantly  felt  that 
she  had  something  to  tell  him.  "You've  something 
to  tell  me/'  he  said;  "what  is  it?" 

Mrs.  Mason  blushed  a  little,  and  laughed.  "I 
was  first  made  to  promise  to  keep  it  a  secret/'  she 
said.  "If  I'm  so  transparent  now  that  I  have  leave 
to  tell  it,  what  should  I  be  if  I  hadn't?  Guess." 

Ferdinand  shook  his  head  peremptorily.  "I  give 
it  up." 

"Caroline  is  engaged." 

"To  whom?" 

"Not  to  Mr.  Stapleton,— to  Dr.  Knight." 

Ferdinand  was  silent  a  moment;  but  he  neither 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        273 

changed  color  nor  dropped  his  eyes.  Then,  at  last, 
"Did  she  wish  you  not  to  tell  me?"  he  asked. 

"She  wished  me  to  tell  no  one.  But  I  prevailed 
upon  her  to  let  me  tell  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ferdinand  with  a  little  bow — 
and  an  immense  irony. 

"It's  a  great  surprise,"  continued  Mrs.  Mason. 
"I  never  suspected  it.  And  there  I  was  talking 
about  Mr.  Stapleton!  I  don't  see  how  they  have 
managed  it.  Well,  I  suppose  it's  for  the  best.  But 
it  seems  odd  that  Caroline  should  have  refused  so 
many  superior  offers,  to  put  up  at  last  with  Dr. 
Knight." 

Ferdinand  had  felt  for  an  instant  as  if  the  power 
of  speech  was  deserting  him;  but  volition  nailed  it 
down  with  a  great  muffled  hammer-blow. 

"She  might  do  worse,"  he  said  mechanically. 

Mrs.  Mason  glanced  at  him  as  if  struck  by  the 
sound  of  his  voice.  "You're  not  surprised, 
then?" 

"I  hardly  know.  I  never  fancied  there  was  any 
thing  between  them,  and  yet,  now  that  I  look  back, 
there  has  been  nothing  against  it.  They  have  talked 
of  each  other  neither  too  much  nor  too  little.  Upon 
my  soul,  they're  an  accomplished  couple!"  Glan 
cing  back  at  his  friend's  constant  reserve  and  self- 
possession,  Ferdinand — strange  as  it  may  seem — 
could  not  repress  a  certain  impulse  of  sympathetic 


274 A   Landscape  Painter 

admiration.  He  had  had  no  vulgar  rival.  "Yes," 
he  repeated  gravely,  "she  might  do  worse." 

"I  suppose  she  might.  He's  poor,  but  he's  clever; 
and  I'm  sure  I  hope  to  Heaven  he  loves  her !" 

Ferdinand  said  nothing. 

"May  I  ask,"  he  resumed  at  length,  "whether 
they  became  engaged  yesterday,  on  that  walk  around 
the  lawn?" 

"No;  it  would  be  fine  if  they  had,  under  our  very 
noses!  It  was  all  done  while  Caroline  was  at  the 
Stapletons'.  It  was  agreed  between  them  yesterday 
that  she  should  tell  me  at  once." 

"And  when  are  they  to  be  married  ?" 

"In  September,  if  possible.  Caroline  told  me 
to  tell  you  that  she  counts  upon  your  staying  for 
the  wedding." 

"Staying  where?"  asked  Mason,  with  a  little  ner 
vous  laugh. 

"Staying  here,  of  course, — in  the  house." 

Ferdinand  looked  his  hostess  full  in  the  eyes,  tak 
ing  her  hand  as  he  did  so.  "  The  funeral  baked 
meats  did  coldly  furnish  forth  the  marriage  tables.'  " 

"Ah,  hold  your  tongue !"  cried  Mrs.  Mason,  press 
ing  his  hand.  "How  can  you  be  so  horrible  ?  When 
Caroline  leaves  me,  Ferdinand,  I  shall  be  quite 
alone.  The  tie  which  binds  us  together  will  be  very 
much  slackened  by  her  marriage.  I  can't  help 
thinking  that  it  was  never  very  close,  when  I  con- 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        275 

sider  that  I've  had  no  part  in  the  most  important 
step  of  her  life.  I  don't  complain.  I  suppose  it's 
natural  enough.  Perhaps  it's  the  fashion, — come  ill 
with  striped  petticoats  and  pea-jackets.  Only  it 
makes  me  feel  like  an  old  woman.  It  removes  me 
twenty  years  at  a  bound  from  my  own  engagement, 
and  the  day  I  burst  out  crying  on  my  mother's  neck 
because  your  uncle  had  told  a  young  girl  I  knew, 
that  he  thought  I  had  beautiful  eyes.  Now-a-days 
I  suppose  they  tell  the  young  ladies  themselves,  and 
have  them  cry  on  their  own  necks.  It's  a  great  sav 
ing  of  time.  But  I  shall  miss  Caroline  all  the  same ; 
and  then,  Ferdinand,  I  shall  make  a  great  deal  of 
you." 

"The  more  the  better,"  said  Ferdinand,  with  the 
same  laugh;  and  at  this  moment  Mrs.  Mason  was 
called  away. 

Ferdinand  had  not  been  a  soldier  for  nothing. 
He  had  received  a  heavy  blow,  and  he  resolved  to 
bear  it  like  a  man.  He  refused  to  allow  himself  a 
single  moment  of  self-compassion.  On  the  con 
trary,  he  spared  himself  none  of  the  hard  names  of 
fered  by  his  passionate  vocabulary.  For  not  guess 
ing  Caroline's  secret,  he  was  perhaps  excusable. 
Women  were  all  inscrutable,  and  this  one  especially 
so.  But  Knight  was  a  man  like  himself, — a  man 
whom  he  esteemed,  but  whom  he  was  loath  to  credit 
with  a  deeper  and  more  noiseless  current  of  feeling 


276 A   Landscape  Painter 

than  his  own,  for  his  own  was  no  babbling  brook, 
betraying  its  course  through  green  leaves.  Knight 
had  loved  modestly  and  decently,  but  frankly  and 
heartily,  like  a  man  who  was  not  ashamed  of  what 
he  was  doing,  and  if  he  had  not  found  it  out  it  was 
his  own  fault.  What  else  had  he  to  do?  He  had 
been  a  besotted  day-dreamer,  while  his  friend  had 
simply  been  a  genuine  lover.  He  deserved  his  in 
jury,  and  he  would  bear  it  in  silence.  He  had  been 
unable  to  get  well  on  an  illusion ;  he  would  now  try 
getting  well  on  a  truth.  This  was  stern  treatment, 
the  reader  will  admit,  likely  to  kill  if  it  didn't 
cure. 

Miss  Hofmann  was  absent  for  several  hours.  At 
dinner-time  she  had  not  returned,  and  Mrs.  Mason 
and  the  young  man  accordingly  sat  down  without 
her.  After  dinner  Ferdinand  went  into  the  little 
parlor,  quite  indifferent  as  to  how  soon  he  met  her. 
Seeing  or  not  seeing  her,  time  hung  equally  heavy. 
Shortly  after  her  companions  had  risen  from  table, 
she  rode  up  to  the  door,  dismounted,  tired  and  hun 
gry,  passed  directly  into  the  dining-room,  and  sat 
down  to  eat  in  her  habit.  In  half  an  hour  she  came 
out,  and,  crossing  the  hall  on  her  way  upstairs,  saw 
Mason  in  the  parlor.  She  turned  round,  and,  gath 
ering  up  her  long  skirts  with  one  hand,  while  she 
held  a  little  sweet-cake  to  her  lips  with  the  other, 
stopped  at  the  door  to  bid  him  good  day.  He  left 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        277 

his  chair,  and  went  towards  her.    Her  face  wore  a 
somewhat  weary  smile. 

"So  you're  going  to  be  married,"  he  began 
abruptly. 

Miss  Hofmann  assented  with  a  slight  movement 
of  her  head. 

"I  congratulate  you.  Excuse  me  if  I  don't  do 
it  with  the  best  grace.  I  feel  all  I  dare  to  feel." 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  said  Caroline,  smiling,  and 
taking  a  bite  from  her  cake. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  it's  not  more  unexpected  than 
even  such  things  have  a  right  to  be.  There's  no 
doubt  about  it." 

"None  whatever." 

"Well,  Knight's  a  very  good  fellow.  I  haven't 
seen  him  yet,"  he  pursued,  as  Caroline  was  silent. 
"I  don't  know  that  I'm  in  any  hurry  to  see  him. 
But  I  mean  to  talk  to  him.  I  mean  to  tell  him  that 
if  he  doesn't  do  his  duty  by  you,  I  shall " 

"Well?" 

"I  shall  remind  him  of  it." 

"O,  I  shall  do  that,"  said  Miss  Hofmann. 

Ferdinand  looked  at  her  gravely.  "By  Heaven! 
you  know,"  he  cried  with  intensity,  "it  must  be 
either  one  thing  or  the  other." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"O,  I  understand  myself.  You're  not  a  woman 
to  be  thrown  away,  Miss  Hofmann." 


278 A   Landscape  Painter 

Caroline  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "I  don't 
understand  you,"  she  repeated.  "You  must  excuse 
me.  I'm  very  tired."  And  she  went  rapidly  up 
stairs. 

On  the  following  day  Ferdinand  had  an  oppor 
tunity  to  make  his  compliments  to  the  Doctor.  "I 
don't  congratulate  you  on  doing  it,"  he  said,  "so 
much  as  on  the  way  you've  done  it." 

"What  do  you  know  about  the  way?"  asked 
Knight. 

"Nothing  whatever.  That's  just  it.  You  took 
good  care  of  that.  And  you're  to  be  married  in 
the  autumn?" 

"I  hope  so.  Very  quietly,  I  suppose.  The  Par 
son  to  do  it,  and  Mrs.  Mason  and  my  mother  and 
you  to  see  it's  done  properly."  And  the  Doctor  put 
his  hand  on  Ferdinand's  shoulder. 

"O,  I'm  the  last  person  to  choose,"  said  Mason. 
"If  he  were  to  omit  anything,  I  should  take  good 
care  not  to  cry  out."  It  is  often  said,  that,  next  to 
great  joy,  no  state  of  mind  is  so  frolicsome  as  great 
distress.  It  was  in  virtue  of  this  truth,  I  suppose, 
that  Ferdinand  was  able  to  be  facetious.  He  kept 
his  spirits.  He  talked  and  smiled  and  lounged  about 
with  the  same  deferential  languor  as  before.  Dur 
ing  the  interval  before  the  time  appointed  for  the 
wedding  it  was  agreed  between  the  parties  inter 
ested  that  Miss  Hofmann  should  go  over  and  spend 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        279 

a  few  days  with  her  future  mother-in-law,  where 
she  might  partake  more  freely  and  privately  than 
at  home  of  the  pleasure  of  her  lover's  company. 
She  was  absent  a  week;  a  week  during  which  Fer 
dinand  was  thrown  entirely  upon  his  hostess  for 
entertainment  and  diversion, — things  he  had  a  very 
keen  sense  of  needing.  There  were  moments  when 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  living  by  mere  force 
of  will,  and  that,  if  he  loosened  the  screws  for  a 
single  instant,  he  would  sink  back  upon  his  bed 
again,  and  never  leave  it.  He  had  forbidden  him 
self  to  think  of  Caroline,  and  had  prescribed  a 
course  of  meditation  upon  that  other  mistress,  his 
first  love,  with  whom  he  had  long  since  exchanged 
pledges, — she  of  a  hundred  names, — work,  letters, 
philosophy,  fame.  But,  after  Caroline  had  gone,  it 
was  supremely  difficult  not  to  think  of  her.  Even 
in  absence  she  was  supremely  conspicuous.  The 
most  that  Ferdinand  could  do  was  to  take  refuge 
in  books, — an  immense  number  of  which  he  now 
read,  fiercely,  passionately,  voraciously, — in  conver 
sation  with  Mrs.  Mason,  and  in  such  society  as  he 
found  in  his  path.  Mrs.  Mason  was  a  great  gossip, 
— a  gossip  on  a  scale  so  magnificent  as  to  transform 
the  foible  into  a  virtue.  A  gossip,  moreover,  of 
imagination,  dealing  with  the  future  as  well  as  the 
present  and  the  past, — with  a  host  of  delightful 
half -possibilities,  as  well  as  with  stale  hyper- verities. 


280 A   Landscape  Painter 

With  her,  then,  Ferdinand  talked  of  his  own  future, 
into  which  she  entered  with  the  most  outspoken  and 
intelligent  sympathy.  "A  man,"  he  declared, 
"couldn't  do  better;  and  a  man  certainly  would  do 
worse."  Mrs.  Mason  arranged  a  European  tour  and 
residence  for  her  nephew,  in  the  manner  of  one  who 
knew  her  ground.  Caroline  once  married,  she  her 
self  would  go  abroad,  and  fix  herself  in  one  of  the 
several  capitals  in  which  an  American  widow  with 
an  easy  income  may  contrive  to  support  existence. 
She  would  make  her  dwelling  a  base  of  supplies — 
a  pied  a  terre — for  Ferdinand,  who  should  take 
his  time  to  it,  and  visit  every  accessible  spot  in  Eu 
rope  and  the  East.  She  would  leave  him  free  to  go 
and  come  as  he  pleased,  and  to  live  as  he  listed ;  and 
I  may  say  that,  thanks  to  Mrs.  Mason's  observation 
of  Continental  manners,  this  broad  allowance  cov 
ered  in  her  view  quite  as  much  as  it  did  in  poor  Fer 
dinand's,  who  had  never  been  out  of  his  own  coun 
try.  All  that  she  would  ask  of  him  would  be  to 
show  himself  say  twice  a  year  in  her  drawing-room, 
and  to  tell  her  stories  of  what  he  had  seen;  that 
drawing-room  which  she  already  saw  in  her  mind's 
eye, — a  compact  little  entresol  with  tapestry  hang 
ings  in  the  doorways  and  a  coach-house  in  the  court 
attached.  Mrs.  Mason  was  not  a  severe  moralist; 
but  she  was  quite  too  sensible  a  woman  to  wish  to 
demoralize  her  nephew,  and  to  persuade  him  to 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        281 

trifle  with  his  future, — that  future  of  which  the  war 
had  already  made  light,  in  its  own  grim  fashion. 
Nay,  she  loved  him ;  she  thought  him  the  cleverest, 
the  most  promising,  of  young  men.  She  looked  to 
the  day  when  his  name  would  be  on  men's  lips,  and 
it  would  be  a  great  piece  of  good  fortune  to  have 
very  innocently  married  his  uncle.  Herself  a  great 
observer  of  men  and  manners,  she  wished  to  give 
him  advantages  which  had  been  sterile  in  her  own 
case. 

In  the  way  of  society,  Ferdinand  made  calls  with 
his  hostess,  went  out  twice  to  dine,  and  caused  Mrs. 
Mason  herself  to  entertain  company  at  dinner.  He 
presided  on  these  occasions  with  distinguished  good 
grace.  It  happened,  moreover,  that  invitations  had 
been  out  some  days  for  a  party  at  the  Stapletons', 
— Miss  Hofmann's  friends, — and  that,  as  there  was 
to  be  no  dancing,  Ferdinand  boldly  announced  his 
intention  of  going  thither.  "Who  knows  ?"  he  said ; 
"it  may  do  me  more  good  than  harm.  We  can  go 
late,  and  come  away  early."  Mrs.  Mason  doubted 
of  the  wisdom  of  the  act;  but  she  finally  assented, 
and  prepared  herself.  It  was  late  when  they  left 
home,  and  when  they  arrived  the  rooms — rooms  of 
exceptional  vastness — were  at  their  fullest.  Mason 
received  on  this  his  first  appearance  in  society  a  most 
flattering  welcome,  and  in  a  very  few  moments 
found  himself  in  exclusive  possession  of  Miss  Edith 


282 A   Landscape  Painter 

Stapleton,  Caroline's  particular  friend.  This  young 
lady  has  had  no  part  in  our  story,  because  our  story 
is  perforce  short,  and  condemned  to  pick  and  choose 
its  constituent  elements.  With  the  least  bit  wider 
compass  we  might  long  since  have  whispered  to  the 
reader,  that  Miss  Stapleton — who  was  a  charming 
girl — had  conceived  a  decided  preference  for  our 
Ferdinand  over  all  other  men  whomsoever.  That 
Ferdinand  was  utterly  ignorant  of  the  circumstance 
is  our  excuse  for  passing  it  by ;  and  we  linger  upon 
it,  therefore,  only  long  enough  to  suggest  that  the 
young  girl  must  have  been  very  happy  at  this  par 
ticular  moment. 

"Is  Miss  Hofmann  here?"  Mason  asked  as  he 
accompanied  her  into  an  adjoining  room. 

"Do  you  call  that  being  here?"  said  Miss  Staple- 
ton,  looking  across  the  apartment.  Mason,  too, 
looked  across. 

There  he  beheld  Miss  Hofmann,  full-robed  in 
white,  standing  fronted  by  a  semicircle  of  no  less 
than  five  gentlemen, — all  good-looking  and  splen 
did.  Her  head  and  shoulders  rose  serene  from  the 
bouillonnement  of  her  beautiful  dress,  and  she 
looked  and  listened  with  that  half -abstracted  air 
which  is  pardonable  in  a  woman  beset  by  half  a 
dozen  admirers.  When  Caroline's  eyes  fell  upon 
her  friend,  she  stared  a  moment,  surprised,  and 
then  made  him  the  most  gracious  bow  in  the  world, 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        283 

— a  bow  so  gracious  that  her  little  circle  half  di 
vided  itself  to  let  it  pass,  and  looked  around  to  see 
where  the  deuce  it  was  going.  Taking  advantage 
of  this  circumstance,  Miss  Hofmann  advanced  sev 
eral  steps.  Ferdinand  went  towards  her,  and  there, 
in  sight  of  a  hundred  men  and  as  many  women, 
she  gave  him  her  hand,  and  smiled  upon  him  with 
extraordinary  sweetness.  They  went  back  together 
to  Miss  Stapleton,  and  Caroline  made  him  sit  down, 
she  and  her  friend  placing  themselves  on  either  side. 
For  half  an  hour  Ferdinand  had  the  honor  of  en 
grossing  the  attention  of  the  two  most  charming 
girls  present, — and,  thanks  to  this  distinction,  in 
deed  the  attention  of  the  whole  company.  After 
which  the  two  young  ladies  had  him  introduced  suc 
cessively  to  every  maiden  and  matron  in  the  as 
sembly  in  the  least  remarkable  for  loveliness  or  wit. 
Ferdinand  rose  to  the  level  of  the  occasion,  and  con 
ducted  himself  with  unprecedented  gallantry.  Upon 
others  he  made,  of  course,  the  best  impression,  but 
to  himself  he  was  an  object  almost  of  awe.  I  am 
compelled  to  add,  however,  that  he  was  obliged  to 
fortify  himself  with  repeated  draughts  of  wine;  and 
that  even  with  the  aid  of  this  artificial  stimulant  he 
was  unable  to  conceal  from  Mrs.  Mason  and  his 
physician  that  he  was  looking  far  too  much  like 
an  invalid  to  be  properly  where  he  was. 

"Was  there  ever  anything  like  the  avidity  of 


284  A   Landscape  Painter 

these  dreadful  girls  ?"  said  Mrs.  Mason  to  the  Doc 
tor.  "They'll  let  a  man  swoon  at  their  feet  sooner 
than  abridge  a  tete-a-tete  that  amuses  them.  Then 
they'll  have  up  another.  Look  at  little  Miss  Mc 
Carthy,  yonder,  with  Ferdinand  and  George  Staple- 
ton  before  her.  She's  got  them  contradicting  each 
other,  and  she  looks  like  a  Roman  fast  lady  at  the 
circus.  What  does  she  care  so  long  as  she  makes 
her  evening?  They  like  a  man  to  look  as  if  he  were 
going  to  die, — it's  interesting." 

Knight  went  over  to  his  friend,  and  told  him 
sternly  that  it  was  high  time  he  should  be  at  home 
and  in  bed.  "You're  looking  horribly,"  he  added 
shrewdly,  as  Ferdinand  resisted. 

"You're  not  looking  horribly,  Colonel  Mason," 
said  Miss  McCarthy,  a  very  audacious  little  per 
son,  overhearing  this  speech. 

"It  isn't  a  matter  of  taste,  madam,"  said  the  Doc 
tor,  angrily;  "it's  a  fact."  And  he  led  away  his 
patient. 

Ferdinand  insisted  that  he  had  not  hurt  himself, 
that,  on  the  contrary,  he  was  feeling  uncommonly 
well;  but  his  face  contradicted  him.  He  continued 
for  two  or  three  days  more  to  play  at  "feeling  well," 
with  a  courage  worthy  of  a  better  cause.  Then  at 
last  he  let  disease  have  its  way.  He  settled  himself 
on  his  pillows,  and  fingered  his  watch,  and  began 
to  wonder  how  many  revolutions  he  would  still 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case        285 

witness  of  those  exquisite  little  needles.  The  Doc 
tor  came,  and  gave  him  a  sound  rating  for  what  he 
called  his  imprudence.  Ferdinand  heard  him  out 
patiently;  and  then  assured  him  that  prudence  or 
imprudence  had  nothing  to  do  with  it;  that  death 
had  taken  fast  hold  of  him,  and  that  now  his  only 
concern  was  to  make  easy  terms  with  his  captor. 
In  the  course  of  the  same  day  he  sent  for  a  lawyer 
and  altered  his  will.  He  had  no  known  relatives, 
and  his  modest  patrimony  stood  bequeathed  to  a 
gentleman  of  his  acquaintance  who  had  no  real 
need  of  it.  He  now  divided  it  into  two  unequal 
portions,  the  smaller  of  which  he  devised  to  William 
Bowles,  Mrs.  Mason's  man-servant  and  his  personal 
attendant ;  and  the  larger — which  represented  a  con 
siderable  sum — to  Horace  Knight.  He  informed 
Mrs.  Mason  of  these  arrangements,  and  was  pleased 
to  have  her  approval. 

From  this  moment  his  strength  began  rapidly  to 
ebb,  and  the  shattered  fragments  of  his  long-re 
sisting  will  floated  down  its  shallow  current  into 
dissolution.  It  was  useless  to  attempt  to  talk,  to 
beguile  the  interval,  to  watch  the  signs,  or  to  count 
the  hours.  A  constant  attendant  was  established 
at  his  side,  and  Mrs.  Mason  appeared  only  at  in 
frequent  moments.  The  poor  woman  felt  that  her 
heart  was  broken,  and  spent  a  great  deal  of  time 
in  weeping.  Miss  Hofmann  remained,  naturally,  at 


286 A  Landscape  Painter 

Mrs.  Knight's.  "As  far  as  I  can  judge/'  Horace 
had  said,  "it  will  be  a  matter  of  a  week.  But  it's 
the  most  extraordinary  case  I  ever  heard  of.  The 
man  was  steadily  getting  well."  On  the  fifth  day 
he  had  driven  Miss  Hofmann  home,  at  her  sug 
gestion  that  it  was  no  more  than  decent  that  she 
should  give  the  young  man  some  little  sign  of  sym 
pathy.  Horace  went  up  to  Ferdinand's  bedside,  and 
found  the  poor  fellow  in  the  languid  middle  con 
dition  between  sleeping  and  waking  in  which  he  had 
passed  the  last  forty-eight  hours.  "Colonel,"  he 
asked  gently,  "do  you  think  you  could  see  Caro 
line?" 

For  all  answer,  Ferdinand  opened  his  eyes.  Hor 
ace  went  out,  and  led  his  companion  back  into  the 
darkened  room.  She  came  softly  up  to  the  bedside, 
stood  looking  down  for  a  moment  at  the  sick  man, 
and  then  stooped  over  him. 

"I  thought  I'd  come  and  make  you  a  little  visit," 
she  said.  "Does  it  disturb  you?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Mason,  looking  her  stead 
ily  in  the  eyes.  "Not  half  as  much  as  it  would  have 
done  a  week  ago.  Sit  down." 

"Thank  you.  Horace  won't  let  me.  I'll  come 
again." 

"You'll  not  have  another  chance,"  said  Ferdi 
nand.  "I'm  not  good  for  more  than  two  days  yet. 
Tell  them  to  go  out.  I  wish  to  see  you  alone.  1 


A  Most  Extraordinary  Case         287 

wouldn't  have  sent  for  you,  but,  now  that  you're 
here,  I  might  as  well  take  advantage  of  it." 

"Have  you  anything  particular  to  say?"  asked 
Knight,  kindly. 

"O,  come,"  said  Mason,  with  a  smile  which  he 
meant  to  be  good-natured,  but  which  was  only 
ghastly;  "you're  not  going  to  be  jealous  of  me  at 
this  time  of  day." 

Knight  looked  at  Miss  Hofmann  for  permission, 
and  then  left  the  room  with  the  nurse.  But  a  min 
ute  had  hardly  elapsed  before  Miss  Hofmann  hur 
ried  into  the  adjoining  apartment,  with  her  face  pale 
and  discomposed. 

"Go  to  him!"  she  exclaimed.     "He's  dying!" 

When  they  reached  him  he  was  dead. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  days  his  will  was  opened, 
and  Knight  came  to  the  knowledge  of  his  legacy. 
"He  was  a  good,  generous  fellow,"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Mason  and  Miss  Hofmann,  "and  I  shall  never  be 
satisfied  that  he  mightn't  have  recovered.  It  was 
a  most  extraordinary  case."  He  was  considerate 
enough  of  his  audience  to  abstain  from  adding  that 
he  would  give  a  great  deal  to  have  been  able  to  make 
an  autopsy.  Miss  Hofmann's  wedding  was,  of 
course,  not  deferred.  She  was  married  in  Septem 
ber,  "very  quietly."  It  seemed  to  her  lover,  in  the 
interval,  that  she  was  very  silent  and  thoughtful. 
But  this  was  natural  under  the  circumstances. 


BORROWED     -> 


U.C.  BEBKEUY  UBMMH 


•H 


